Zingara
by Becky Belle
Summary: You must die, my beauty, or be mine - the priest's, the apostate's, the murderer's! Do you understand? Come now! Kiss me, my darling! The tomb or my bed...Claude Frollo, Notre Dame De Paris. What if La Esmeralda didn't die? Book based. Ch 17!
1. Un Matin Tu Dansais

I don't own Hugo's work, and I'm not quite sure who does, probably_ thousands_ of publishers and movie makers... However, I can assure you, it's not me.

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The playful sound of a street performer's tambourine floated through the crisp morning air. The academic sighed. His concentration was forever being broken by poor poets, singers, and dancers that clogged the Paris streets, trying to earn a living. Of late, it seemed, they were congregating around the massive cathedral Notre Dame.

The academic returned to his book, trying to find the place where he had left off. Just when he had found his spot, the tambourine's tune changed and became louder. Determined to finish the page, he concentrated harder than ever. Several minuets later, the book once again held the middle-aged man's complete concentration once more. Unfortunately for him, it was not fated to remain that way.

The bells of the church rang loud and clear over the bustling French city. The scholar threw down his tome in exasperation and cursed the bell ringer's punctuality. There was no point in continuing his studies; it appeared it was not a day for gaining wisdom.

With the scholarly mentality gone, he paced around his small room, pondering what to do next. He almost wished his brother would come begging for money. At least it would provide some entertainment for half an hour. He looked out the window, hoping to see the familiar figure of Jehan running toward the cathedral. To his disappointment, his brother was nowhere to be seen.

Casually, the priest changed his direction and looked upwards. The bells had stopped ringing, which could only mean that bell ringer was, more than likely, gazing out at the city from the north tower. Past the stone and the gargoyles, the man could see the twisted form of Quasimodo. Indeed, he was standing up on the tower, but his gaze was fixed on something close to Notre Dame instead of out over the city. Curious as to what commanded all of the hunchback's attention, the priest turned his attention to the plaza.

There was nothing out of the ordinary. Peasants were coming and going, hurriedly completing their tasks, and, of course, there was the gaggle of vagabonds that played and danced in the street. As he examined the people below, a flash of gold caught his attention – it was the tambourine that had distracted him. The girl who held the instrument swirled back and forth in beat with the happy tune she played.

So this woman had captured the attention of his little bell ringer? For a moment, he was disgusted, but the feeling was fleeting. Once he had been a young man plagued with the desires of the flesh. Of course, he had grown out of such humanly and base desires long ago, and he realized that it was more important to serve others than one's self. The hunchback would either come to the same conclusion, or he would doom himself to a lonely and miserable life. The man gave Quasimodo one last look and laughed.

Perhaps he would go visit Quasimodo, but he did despise being near the bells. At the tender age of fourteen, Quasimodo found more pleasure playing the large instruments than studying. At first, his adoptive father had been glad that the poor boy had found something that brought him so much happiness, but then he began to lose his hearing. Knowing that if he pursued his dream he would become totally deaf, Quasimodo continued to toll the bells every day. It was such a shame. The child promised to be an intelligent scholar, much like his step-brother, the priest's younger brother, but all learning had to stop when the boy could hear no more.

This terribly grieved the scholar. He had wanted to fill the child's life with knowledge, but he was happier with the bells. The man sighed. Perhaps he _would_ visit the youth, the priest thought. They both enjoyed the other's company, and over the years the scholar had been able to work out a series of signs to communicate with Quasimodo.

He walked over to the tome that he had dropped and picked it up. As he was about to place it on his desk, the tambourine's shrill notes rang through his cell once more. He glided over to the window, ready to at the curse the vagabond dancer, but when he looked out, he found it hard to be vexed. The girl had drawn a large crowd and was moving at a faster pace with her fans' encouragement. She danced and whirled about, her dark hair reflecting the sun and creating a halo around her head. She looked more angel than human.

For the rest of the morning, the priest observed the tiny dancer from his cell. Even when she was not performing, she intrigued him. The goat that stayed close to her side drew in large amounts from the crowds, too, he noticed. The brilliant white animal was able to do simple tricks that pleased the common folk. But what really attracted people was the gypsy girl. From the moment she picked up her tambourine to the second she set it down, she set a spell on her audience. After her dances, people gave her money and then went about their business, but the priest could not leave his spot near the window.

He had never seen a woman so charming and graceful. The very sun, in all its radiance, seemed to shine brighter when she was dancing. His heart would quicken every time she stood up to dance and calm when she stopped. He wanted to leave his room and be near her, for he was sure that if he saw her close up she would be disappointment, as were all women.

The hesitant priest slowly walked to the ground floor of Notre Dame. As he reached the door, he reprimanded himself for getting so carried away. Just as he was about the walk back upstairs, he heard a crowd cheering for the dancer to entertain them. Full of purpose, he swept outside, eager to stifle any intrigue he felt toward the girl.

No more than two steps out of the church, the priest stopped. Was it possible that the creature could be even lovelier than what he had imagined in his cell? It appeared so. This girl was the most beautiful human the priest had ever laid eyes upon. Archdeacon Claude Frollo felt a sudden longing for the girl; he ran back into the safety of Notre Dame, frightened of his feelings.

The girl had bewitched him.

--

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	2. Condamnés

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_Cain, where is thy brother?_

A dark figure watched as the body of a young man dangled from the twisted arms of the deformed hunchback high above. He inhaled sharply as the man was thrown against the wall then dashed to the ground far below. In that simple movement, the hunchback had unwittingly crushed all that was left of his master's fleeting sanity.

The words rang through the Archdeacon's mind again. _Cain, where is thy brother?_ He is dead, he thought, and I have killed him.

Dom Claude Frollo's shoulders sagged, and he cursed fate. The children he had unselfishly sacrificed his life for repaid him by throwing their own lives away. Quasimodo, whom Frollo had saved from the hands of the vicious mob when he was a babe, threw away his life away on the bells that eventually took his hearing. And Jehan, his own dear brother, spent his life, and his allowances, on cheap entertainment and drink.

Now the mangled form of his younger brother, the child he had reared as his own, lying dead on the ground confirmed that he was a slave to fate. There was no escaping fatality, a decree from fate. Suddenly, a small noise was made by the philosopher Gringoire, who stirred uncomfortably next to the cloaked priest. Even the poet was ready to forfeit his life to fate.

The younger man sighed. His thoughts wondered to the doomed animal with white hair and golden horns that was trapped inside the cathedral walls. If its mistress, the condemned gypsy, was taken by the group assimilating outside the church, the goat would be hanged with her. He had grown quite fond of that animal. Like his morose companion, Gringoire thought about how cruel fate was.

The two men watched and waited inside the massive church for the one being that unknowingly held both their fates in her delicate hands. The poet, who at first was attracted to La Esmeralda, now saw her more of a sister than anything romantic; while the priest had become obsessed with the Egyptian, the gypsy dancer. Although Gringoire held no amorous feelings for his gypsy friend – he much preferred the company of her happy goat – he did owe her his life.

To Gringoire, it was odd that his former teacher, the priest, more obsessed with academics than with human life, would take such an interest in saving the doomed dancer. For whatever reason the Archdeacon had for wanting to liberate La Esmeralda, he had made a point during one of their philosophical debates. Once, it seemed like months had passed since that day, the gypsy had saved Gringoire from her vagabond company, and he was in debt to her. And through the encouragement and help of the melancholy Frollo, Gringoire came up with a capital idea that would free him from the gypsy's debt...only it involved sacrificing himself.

At first, Gringoire took his task very seriously and started to prepare for the darkness that awaited him. He was ready to die for his young savior. Was there anything more poetic than dying for a innocent, beautiful girl? The poet could not think of one.

Suddenly, looking like a lost soul wandering in an unknown purgatory, a form clad in white emerged from a darkened hall, and Frollo was reminded of the spider eating its prey. The gypsy had walked right into their web. He pulled the hood over his balding head and tapped the pondering poet out of his stupor.

Gringoire silently jerked, then looked at the white figure who had wandered into the room. Even in the dim light of the cathedral, he could see her face contorted in fear. The shouts from outside were becoming louder and echoed in the empty space, and the mob was trying to break down the door, it appeared. He looked at his shadowed companion and suddenly felt a twinge of fear. They were on a fool's mission that ended with all of their deaths.

The white creature drew unintentionally closer to the two men. It was time for the poet to act, so the priest shoved him in Esmeralda's path. The gypsy gave a small shriek, then settled when she recognized the face of her Gringoire. Her goat leapt forward to greet its lost friend.

Gringoire gently grabbed the gypsy's pale hand and said, "The crowd outside grows while there is but one man protecting Notre Dame's doors. We can save you."

La Esmeralda gave a dark look at the cloaked figure, then she back to Gringoire. The child was cornered with only a small hope of escape. She had vainly prayed that her love, her Phoebus, would come to her rescue. The thought rang through her mind that perhaps he was charging towards the church at that very moment.

From his corner in the shadows, he saw the slight hesitation that the gypsy had before nodding, which sent a small ripple through her dark curls. Every graceful move that the Bohemian made entranced Frollo. No woman before had been able to capture his eye. When he was a youth, he spent much of his time studying and caring for his brother and adoptive son. Since he had grown older, his priestly duties and deep concentrations had kept his eyes from wandering over to the opposite sex; until he saw _her_ dancing beneath his window. Ever since that fatal morning, the scared, dark girl that now stood in front of him had dominated his thoughts.

With Gringoire leading the way, they at once began to move through the stone walls of Notre Dame to a safe exit near the river Seine. Once the small company had quited Notre Dame, La Esmeralda looked around, much to the Archdeacon's dismay. He bitterly thought to himself that she was no doubt looking for her handsome Captain of the Guards, Phoebus de Chateaupers. The priest was sure that the arrogant Captain was either out wooing another ignorant female or begging forgiveness from his unfortunate wife or fiancée, or, even more likely, his fiancée's mother.

He remembered the time he followed Jehan to see what he did with the money that boy had begged so hard for; Frollo found him meeting his rival, the blonde haired Captain, for drinks. The meeting between the two friends crushed the spying Archdeacon in more way than one. First, the proud Phoebus was boastfully sharing his soon to be conquest of the dancing gypsy girl. And second, Jehan was a indeed a drunk

The thought of his younger brother brought a deep sigh from Frollo. This caused his young love to look uncomfortably back at him. The priest reprimanded himself. He knew that the cursed girl would not willingly go with them if she knew that he was the secret one aiding her.

They reached the river, in which there was a small boat that moved up and down with the small waves. The Seine was a dark charcoal, almost black. Lights from the giant church reflected in the river, as did the molten lead that Quasimodo had poured on the vagabond group.

The small party climbed into the boat and began to head down the river: Gringoire at the bow, Esmeralda in the middle, leaving the Archdeacon at the stern. Gringoire looked at the frightened girl and her little goat, who had sensed its mistress' fear and was anxiously looking around. It was such a small thing. If they were caught, which was a huge possibility, he would want to be hanged first so he wouldn't have to see the pretty animal be killed.

Just then, a group of the King's Archers road by shouting, "Death to the sorceress." Esmeralda suddenly perked and then gave a slight shudder before falling unconscious onto the lap of the man sitting behind her.

Frollo, unaccustomed and unprepared for such physical contact, gave a wary look at his brooding companion from beneath his cowl. Gringoire was aloof and gazing longingly at the riverside. Frollo smirked. Pierre Gringoire was a true philosopher, a man of thought and not of action.

The priest returned his attention to the sleeping form that had fallen onto his lap. The craft was too small to move her around too much, so he kept her there. As the priest gazed at the young girl, he carefully, as if touching the most precious gold, lifted his hand to stroke her velvety, dark hair. In that moment, all sanity and reason abandoned the man, and he confirmed that La Esmeralda was fated to be with him and no other.

The child slept for the remainder of the short trip. Gringoire, who had become very distraught, made up his mind. What reason was there in allowing an innocent animal such as the goat to perish? The very thought of harm coming to his cherished animal made his stomach sick. No, he would not let anything happen to it. The goat, like all animals, was different from humans; it was free from the ever changing emotions that humans were cursed with. No matter what happened to the little animal, it would never reject or scorn Gringoire.

With his mind made up, he glanced back at his fellow companions. The end of their voyage was nigh, and he had to act quickly. Soon, he felt the small boat being guided to the edge of the bank; it hit the shore with a soft jerk. The movement woke the sleeping Esmeralda, and she cautiously looked around.

The troubadour saw his chance; he lunged forward and grabbed the goat. It bleated painfully and squirmed in his arms, but he would not let go. Gringoire leapt out of the boat and ran away from the two confused people he left behind.

La Esmeralda watched as her goat was stolen from her. She wanted to cry out to the retreating form of Gringoire – he had left her in the mercy of an unknown stranger! Surely, this cloaked man was a devil that had come to harm her. Now the the mysterious stranger had climbed out of the skiff and was proffering a pale hand to the frightened girl.

Frollo nervously watched as the gypsy eyed his hand. The Archers were patrolling the river and would find them if she did not act quickly. When she refused to act, he decided he would not wait for the Bohemian; he grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the shore. She cried out and struggled against his grip, but he held on tightly and began to pull her away from the shore and towards their destination.

Once or twice, he heard the young girl give a muffled cry for help. It was very dark, and no one would come to her rescue. He moved faster, for they where approaching the Place de Grève, the execution site for criminals. He could see the gallows gleaming in the soft moonlight.

When they reached the Place, Frollo yanked his captive's arm and threw her on the ground. She grabbed the bottom of the gallows, not quite aware of what she held on to. The priest looked down on her and gave another sigh.

"Tis the cursed priest!" she cried from her spot on the ground. Her scorn filled Frollo with anger and hate. This woman, this gypsy, had been the cause of his decent into madness. His dear brother, his child, had died, killed by his other son, trying to free her from the walls of Notre Dame. This woman had made him weak, but he would not allow it any longer.

"The time approaches," he responded solemnly as he threw back his hood, "where you will be caught and hanged for your sins... I can save thee."

"Away from me," she shrieked as he crouched down. "Away from me, devil."

"Before the sun rises this very day, surely you will be dead. Listen to me; do not rebuke me. One kind word, that's all I ask. Send me not from your presence." At this, he stopped and watched the fragile girl. She was mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like her lover's name. "Do not say his name," he hissed. "I am the only one that can save you. Look, the King's men are looking for you now; even the townspeople are looking for you."

True to his words, a large group of people, awoken by the cries of the vagabonds beating on Notre Dame, could be heard from across the river shouting, "Death to the sorceress!" Esmeralda listened their bloodthirsty shouts and hung her head. Her Phoebus had not come for her; instead, she was left with this hellish monk.

"Listen to me," he began again. "Say not his name, for I cannot stand to hear it."

Esmeralda, who was paying little attention to what the priest had to say, scanned the opposite side of the river. She was sure that her love would come for her. And suddenly, the gypsy's heart gave a jump for she was sure she saw Phoebus, her sun god, on the other side. Before she could shout out her love's name, a hand clamped around her mouth.

"There is a place where I will take you, far away from those who want you dead. If you will not spare me a kind word, give me but a kind glance," Frollo whispered. The Egyptian gave a slight shuddered; only her Phoebus could save her.

"Foolish child, can't you see that your fate is sealed? It comes down to this: choose life or death, me or your gallows." He grabbed face and forced her to look at him. There were tears in her eyes, and she frantically tried to look away from his piercing gaze.

It was the same horrible face that she saw as Phoebus was stabbed. It was a hellish face that made her cringe every time she was forced to look upon it. Even the hideously misshapen face of her protector, Quasimodo, was more agreeable to her than that of the priest's. This man was her tormentor.

"Assassin, assassin, away from me!" she shrieked and tried to shove him away.

Frollo grabbed his prey tightly and said, "No, I will not be the slave here."

The mad priest was confused. He was sure that once the dancing girl was faced with the decision of life and death, she would choose him; but it seemed that the child did not comprehend the magnitude of her decision. He would not wait around any longer just to have her insult him further while she threw away her life.

"I will not be the slave," he repeated. "I am the master! If you will not choose life, then I will choose it for you. There is a cave near here where I will drag you. There I will be the master."

La Esmeralda began to feel faint again. She would do anything to get away from this man. She summoned up what little physical strength she had and tore at his balding head. He grabbed on to her more tightly and pulled her close enough that she could only squirm.

"If you escape, you will not live to see another sunset. The King's men will find you and hang you. The same mob that once cheered for your sanctuary in Notre Dame will cheer twice as loud when they see your body dance on the end of a rope. I will save you," he gently whispered in her ear.

For a moment, Frollo was ready to give up, to give the girl to the bitter nun that lived for Esmeralda's torment. Why should he pursue his present course? It was obvious that she would never love him. The image of her colorful skirt spinning in rhythm and her hair capturing the sun flashed through his crazed mind, and all thoughts of despair disappeared. This radiant creature was almost his.

He could feel from the wetness on his shirt that she was crying harder than before; her tiny body was going through small convulsions as she wept. But this was the way it was meant to be. She was fated to be his and no one else's. The Archdeacon slowly kissed her cheek then pulled her up. She tried to run away but he grabbed her hand and held her close.

Once he was sure that she would not run, he started to walk. He wanted to get away from the Place de Grève as fast as they could; the sun would rise soon, and he did not want them to be visible. Every now and then, the gypsy would struggle against his stony grip but quickly gave up.

After what seemed like hours to La Esmeralda, they came to a forest. With every step that she was pulled along, her heart began to lose hope. Neither Phoebus nor Quasimodo could save her from the wretched priest out in the wilderness. She was being dragged far away. She started to weep again as she thought about her terrible predicament. The man clenched her arm more tightly, and she feared that her hand would turn purple.

As the trees became more dense, the pink morning sky became disappeared. The young gypsy was growing more afraid with every step. Her white dress was beginning to snag on broken tree limbs and weeds that covered the forest floor; she cried out in pain as her leg got caught in briar of thorns.

Frollo, who had rarely looked back at his unwilling prize, stopped when he heard her shout. He looked at her face twisted in pain. Wanting to find the source of her discomfort, the priest glanced down at her beautiful, bare pale leg and found it bloody and torn from thorns. The bottom of the white dress – his eyes widened, for she had pulled up to her knee, reveling a shapely leg – had small red dots of blood decorating the edge. He felt a small amount of duty as he bent down to release her from the plant.

He cautiously looked up at Esmeralda, and then slowly grabbed her leg. She hissed in obvious discomfort with his touch, but he was the only one there to help her. After several minutes of working, he had freed her from the thorns.

When he stood up again, he looked at the Egyptian. Her face was pale, and she was favoring her injured leg. He reached out to touch her face, but she backed away. The Archdeacon sighed and looked at the ground. After several tense seconds, he looked up at the girl. "Enough," he hissed then pulled her to him.

Frollo grabbed her face with his bloody hands. He drew her close and whispered, "You are mine," before kissing her lips. The gypsy girl was repulsed; the memory of his lips on hers brought back memories of her poor Phoebus lying like the dead on her lap. She pushed her tormentor away and shrieked for him to leave her be.

Dom Claude Frollo glared at his gypsy. Did she not understand that she was his? With a sudden anger, he slapped the weeping girl across the face. Along with the blood that transferred from his hand to her face, her entire cheek became a bright pink. The Egyptian looked at her captor, whimpered, and then fainted.

The priest looked down at crumpled form of the girl. Esmeralda, her tangled hair full of leaves, looked like a wood nymph. His heart felt like it would stop beating; this lovely creature he pined for months over was now his. But was the prize worth the sacrifice? Once again, his mind wandered to the son that he had killed.

With a sudden pang in his heart, he dropped down next Esmeralda and let out a deep moan. Tears began to flow from his eyes. The priest gathered the small Esmeralda in his arms and cried into her hair. He wept for several moments before the tears ceased. He would not allow himself to become weak! He slowly stood up with the unconscious gypsy still in his arms, and he began to walk.

He would show her that she was his. She was fated to be with him and no other.

--

Because I love him so much, I quoted and paraphrased Hugo in this chapter. Thanks for reviewing!


	3. Les Cloches

The hunchback was exhausted, but he could not stop. Even though he was weeping and full of anguish, he could not make himself stop. The events of the previous evening had proven to be a trial on his twisted body, but it was nowhere near the amount of pain his heart felt.

When he saw the mob full of tramps arrive at the doors of Notre Dame, he fought hard to keep them out. For awhile, he had been able to slow down the attack, but the tramps were quick to retaliate. They beat on the cathedral's massive doors until they began to shatter. Once they had completely penetrated the doors, Quasimodo lost hope. The deformed bell ringer had failed his love, for there was no way he could save her from them once they got inside the church.

He had given up all hope until a man on horseback, Quasimodo recognized him as the gypsy girl's lover, arrived with a host of other men. Phoebus' company came with charging horses and drawn swords. He cheered as he watched the soldiers slaughter the mob, which was, in fact, La Esmeralda's would be liberators. If only the deaf bell ringer had heard their shouts, he would have aided them in the removal of the Bohemian. But unfortunately for several vagabonds, and Esmeralda, their cries were not heard.

The joy the hunchback felt was indescribable; he was sure that his gypsy was safe again. He ran to her room wanting to watch her in her peaceful sleep. Much to his surprise, there was no sleeping form on the little bed or goat lying in the corner. The girl and her animal had vanished.

He dashed into the room and called out her name. When he did not see any movement, he ran through the church calling for the gypsy. The King's archers, who had entered the church after their victory, also began to search for the condemned gypsy for a entirely different reason than the hunchback's. He had thought that they were her saviors when they had actually come to collect her for the gallows. After a time, they gave up.

Quasimodo, who had become frantic with worry, checked everywhere he remembered the Bohemian ever being. She was nowhere. He ran to the top of one of Notre Dame's tower to scan the city of Paris for her, but the dark night prevented him from seeing his love.

He cried and began to walk down to her cell, when he noticed something odd about his master's cell. The lights were not lit, which Quasimodo considered odd not only because the priest usually liked to study late into the night but also because of the attack on the church. Surely, if Frollo had gone to sleep, he would have been awakened by the assault.

Quasimodo felt despair creep in again; the priest had taken the gypsy. He cursed himself. Of course the priest would steal her when he was distracted. He felt a sudden burning rage toward his adoptive father.

He went back to the gypsy's cell and stayed there till dawn.

When he saw the first rays of light coming through the small window, Quasimodo wildly ran to the north tower. He gazed out over the waking city, but there was no sign of the gypsy. He cried and gnashed his teeth. He had not been able to save her.

The sad hunchback retreated back to her little room and collapsed on her bed. He had failed La Esmeralda. The poor Quasimodo wept, until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke hoping to find that the Bohemian had returned to him. When she was not in the room waiting to greet him, he let out a mournful wail. He stumbled off the bed and pulled at his hair. He wanted to seek out the girl but had no idea where to start.

He stepped toward the door when something shiny caught his watery eyes. He bent down and picked up the object; it was the whistle that he had given her. The bell ringer held the object to his chest. It was just another reminder that he had failed her.

He slowly made his way back to the north tower. He scanned the horizon for the gypsy girl but, like before, there was no sign. Down below, he noticed that beside from people looking at the hole in Notre Dame's door, the Parisians were acting like normal. This angered the hunchback.

He would let Paris know the despair he felt. He ran to his three Maries; only they would do. He rang the bells with more fervor than he ever had before; he imagined the confused faces looking to the bell tower. Then the idea came to him that if he rang the bells, the gypsy would hear and return to him.

The bell ringer's calloused hands eventually began to bleed from the rough ropes, but he did not stop. He never felt pain or fatigue; he just continued to ring the bells praying that his gypsy would return to him.

--

I do realize that I don't possess the best grammar in the world; but if you would like to throw a little tip my way, I would really appreciate the help. Also, big thanks to Lillebule.


	4. La Torture

Before she woke, the priest apprehensively looked at her, afraid to come close. His treasure, his love that he would go to the depths of hell for, was sleeping as if the cold hands of death had come upon her. The Archdeacon moved slightly closer so he could see her chest moving up and down from breathing.

When he had carried her to the little hut he had found, it drove him mad to be so close to the creature and have her not responsive. He wanted her to love him as deeply as he loved her. Frollo would have done anything for a kind look from her. Had he not sworn to her that he would die without her love? But the foolish child was still infatuated with her boy lover, Phoebus, and would have nothing to do with him. This horribly vexed the priest.

Did she not see? He was offering her a life of love and security that no other man could offer her, especially her glorious soldier. Within a week of having her, the blonde captain would have forgotten her name. But the priest was different; he offered love no woman in the world had ever received. How cruel fate can be, he thought miserably. Because of his looks and age, his young love would never look favorably upon him.

Perhaps, he idly thought as he looked at the ground, perhaps with time, she would grow to respect his love and return it.

His eyes turned from the stone back to the sleeping beauty. She looked like a martyr in her white gown speckled with blood. The sun from the thatched roof bathed her in golden light and illuminated her shiny hair. Her creamy skin looked soft and warm. He moved closer to touch the child.

Frollo slowly laid a hand on her, careful not to wake her. He started to caress her velvety curls, which smelled like spices and jasmine -- it was a scent that was unique to her. He careful picked the leaves and twigs out of her hair, and then he began to detangle the black mass. Being able to touch such a precious item as her hair without being rebuked filled the priest with even more adoration for the Egyptian.

It didn't take Frollo long to brush the gypsy's hair to perfection; it was so soft, the tangles merely fell out with the simplest touch. He buried his face in her hair, still careful not to wake her, and thanked God for the small blessing. Surely, this girl, his angel, would love him. Once she realized her childish love for Phoebus was all in vain, she could not reject the pure love that he offered her.

He would take her away, and they would live together as man and wife. He imagined a small house in the clearing of a forest that was lit with happiness by their love. They would worship each other and love like no other couple on earth.

He gave a happy sigh before looking over the rest of the beautiful creature; his eyes were drawn to the scratches from the thorns. He winced. They weren't deep, but leg was smeared with blood. And her face was also bloody from where he had slapped her. Frollo silently cursed himself. How could he strike his love?

The Archdeacon looked at his own hands that were covered in her dried blood; the color had turned brown and was beginning to crack. The priest almost began to weep when he thought about his love in pain by his own actions. The innocent child did not deserve to feel pain.

The priest could not look at his beloved for shame. He would have to clean her. Thinking back, he remembered a small creek he had crossed before coming upon the hut. He looked down at the Bohemian one more time before proceeding outside.

When the priest was out of the hut, he tore the hem of his robe into small pieces that he could dunk into the water. Hoping that the sound of fabric tearing had not awakened the gypsy, he peeped his balding head inside; she remained unmoving and her breathing was still shallow. This appeased the worried priest.

Satisfied, he began his hike to the stream. The soft trickle of water was heard before he saw the stream. The priest knelt down and let the cool water clean his dirty hands; the blood turned the water a slight pink before being swept away. Once his hands were clean, he held the torn pieces of fabrics under the water until they were dripping wet. Frollo draped the torn shreds across his forearm and began to head back when a brightly colored flower caught his eye.

It was small and red. Looking around, he saw that there were several of the flowers in the woods. The priest thought of his little martyr sleeping in the hut; she looked everything of the part, except she had no crown. Well, he would make her one, he thought.

He plucked a flower from its stem and inspected it. Truly it was an exceptional flower that was worthy of adorning his beloved's head. He meticulously began to pick the flowers one by one. Once be had picked enough, he began to gather grasses and green leaves that would help decorate her crown. Finally he had all the materials he wanted and headed back to the hut.

She was still asleep. He quickly began his task of cleaning her leg and cheek. A few times she had stirred, and the priest quickly jumped away from her; but she remained sleeping. By the time her leg had been cleaned of the blood, exhausted his supply of wet cloth. With the blood gone, the Archdeacon was fully satisfied, and he could look at the Egyptian without his heart filling with shame.

He went outside to work on her crown. At first, his hands seemed to be too big and clumsy to form the little plants into tiny knots; but after several practices, he became more dexterous. When the crown was complete, he felt a huge sense of pride. The crown was perfect for the girl.

Slowly he crept inside and placed the flowery crown onto her perfect head. He sighed. There was no sight that he had ever seen that was lovelier than she. His eyes were driven from the head of his sleeping love to her neck. Around it was a small leather necklace that held a pouch. He untied and grasped it in his hand and he went outside in the light to examine it.

--

The room in which she awoke was cold and, besides the tiny drops of sunlight that came in through the thatched roof, dark. The floor, which was made of stone, did not help warm the gypsy. She assumed it must have rained recently because in some areas where the roof must have leaked, there were small puddles of water. Although it easily reminded her of a cave, it was not. This brought a small smile to the nervous girl's face. She hoped that maybe someone had rescued her from the priest and her savior and brought her to his home.

As she sat up, she felt something slide off the back of her head. The girl looked behind her and found the crown made by the hands of the priest. "This is a strange object," she wondered aloud.

She brushed the leafy collection aside, and with one graceful movement, the gypsy instinctively grabbed for her necklace that held her precious shoe. To her disdain, it was not there. The Bohemian's hands roamed the surrounding area desperately looking for the lost object. After several minutes of searching, she stood up and frantically paced the distance of the small room looking for the necklace.

She gave a sigh of distress -- for sixteen years she had been able to hold on to that precious object. Now it was lost because of the wretched priest. Suddenly, the necklace vanished from her mind when the gypsy sighted a door in one of the walls of the room. Perhaps, she thought, her rescuer was politely waiting outside until she awoke. The gypsy slowly opened the door and gasped; a large black shadow was lingering on the other side.

The priest, who had been pondering the small shoe outside, heard the door opening. He swiftly turned around and waited to greet the gypsy girl. Upon seeing him, she threw the door shut. This simple action enraged the priest. He had promised himself that he would control his wild body, but with yet another rejection he became livid.

She slammed the thick door shut and threw her entire weight against it as the priest desperately tried to get in. Unfortunately for the girl, Frollo had the advantage of knowledge and more weight. With just the right amount of pressure, he was able to pry open the door and let himself in.

The Archdeacon had the familiar wild look of an animal about him; the gypsy once again instinctively grabbed for her absent necklace. Frollo recognized this action and gave a bitter smile as he slowly held up his hand. La Esmeralda's eyes darkened when she saw her precious necklace in the palm of her enemy.

"Monster, give it to me," the Egyptian said as she watched the priest. He was took a deep breath and looked fixedly upon her, which made the gypsy sick. Without taking his eyes off her, he opened the little pouch and pulled out the shoe. Esmeralda grew tense as he started to pick at the decorated shoe with his pale fingers.

Outraged, the girl demanded that he stop touching her shoe; it was horrible for her to see something so dear to her become a plaything of the wretched priest. His face twisted into a malicious smile before letting out a wild laugh. He threw the shoe's necklace carrier to the ground.

"Will you love me?" the priest asked casually. He received his answer in the form of a small shake of the Bohemian's head. He remained silent then asked the same question again, to which he received the same answer.

"Ah, but I love you. But if you will not love me…" his voice waned; the priest gave off the appearance that he was in deep concentration. Then, as if tired, he held out his hand that the delicate shoe was in and opened his palm. Esmeralda apprehensively regarded the man and her shoe before warily stepping forward; he was watching her like a cat lazily playing with a mouse. She took another small step toward his hand.

In the distance, she could hear bells ringing haphazardly. This meant two things to the poor, distraught gypsy girl: she was not far from Paris, and the hunchback was calling for her. Without warning, the girl leapt away from the priest and ran toward the door.

The Archdeacon, ready for such a move, dove toward Esmeralda and knocked her to the ground. She desperately tried to scramble to her feet, but the mad man was already upon her. Her hands pounded on her assailant, but he merely ignored her blows.

Similar to the time had when he had attacked her in Notre Dame, the priest was stronger than the poor girl, and he was able to slightly subdue her. With one hand he held both of her delicate hands, and with the other he lovingly began to caress her hair. He let out another diabolic laugh and said, "Kiss me, my darling, for there is beneath us a bottomless abyss, down which I shall follow you."

"You are a devil," she spat. He laughed again before pressing his lips to hers. The Egyptian desperately prayed to Notre Dame for anyone to save her from the man she feared more than the gallows.

"And you are a demon," he panted between kisses. "You have intoxicated my mind with ungodly images that won't leave me. You have full possession of my mind, as I will have full possession of you." He let go of her hands so his hands would be free to roam over her dainty body.

Taking advantage of her regained freedom, Esmeralda pushed against the priest's shoulders, but to no avail; she was not able to move him. Far off, she heard the sound of Quasimodo's bells still calling for her. The memory of the shiny metal whistle her eyes caught as her head made contact with the cold stone in Notre Dame now seemed like a cruel joke to her. The Egyptian's mind kept replaying Quasimodo ripping the priest away from her; it was the only thing she could think about.

She was torn away from her memories when she felt something in her mouth; it was the priest's tongue. The gypsy convulsed with disgust. Strong hands grabbed her upper arms and held her down as she tried to wriggle out of the priest's grasp.

His mouth was now moving away from her mouth to her neck and chest. Between kisses, he was moaning something the gypsy did not understand. He brought his lips to hers once more, and he quickly thrust his tongue into her mouth. Much to the surprise of the priest, La Esmeralda bit down hard until she tasted blood.

He quickly rolled off of her and grabbed his mouth. The gypsy jumped to her feet and ran to the door. With a quick glance behind her, the priest was still on the ground, the Bohemian threw the door open and made her way outside.

The gypsy ran, getting to Paris was far from her mind. The hope of seeing someone who could save her from the goblin monk was the only thing she thought about. Her light feet moved quickly over the forest floor. The twigs and low hanging branches brushed passed her, but she did not stop running. Her terrified mind would not let her stop.

A clearing in the sky led the gypsy to believe that the forest was thinning. She slowed her pace and looked behind her. The hut, she assumed it was a hut, was nowhere to be seen in the thick forest. Her heart suddenly gave a small lurch; in the distance, she saw the priest swiftly moving through the trees. The frightened girl knelt down and crouched behind a tree as the wild man passed by.

Not wanting to waste time, Esmeralda darted in the opposite direction that the priest went; her movements became clumsy and desperate the faster she ran. She moved between two trees and let out a loud scream. She had run into a large spider web. The spider, a big, thick, brown thing that had been enjoying a nice insect feast, found himself resting on the Egyptian's forehead.

Her present situation threw the priest far from her mind. Afraid to touch the spider, she swung her head about, hoping that the thing would fall off. The spider, half as frightened as the girl, began to burrow in the gypsy's hair. Finally, her hands picked her way through her hair until she found the cause of her present torture. She scooped it from her head and flung it far from her.

Happy with her victory, the gypsy smiled until she felt arms encompass her. She recognized the breathing of the goblin monk before he said anything. He held her tight so she would not move.

"You bewitched me again. As I watched you sleep, my heart was full of such love that I would have died before letting someone hurt a hair on your head. If you would have agreed to be mine, I would have become your slave, more loyal to you than the damned bell ringer," the priest panted. "Love me, for I shall give you everything your heart could ever desire. We will live together, happy in our love. Just be mine!"

He violently turned her around to face him. His mouth was red with blood that dribbled down onto his chin and robe. She was filled with disgust. "I shall love only Phoebus," she declared boldly.

Frollo could not control himself, he slapped his goddess; the resounding _smack_ filled the forest. "I have told you not to speak his name. You force me to hurt you," he looked unhappily at her.

He was filled with jealousy. That deviant, that soldier, was still able to hold the gypsy's affection even though he was far away. The last time she had been near the man was months ago. Surely no one would hold such childish admiration for that long.

It didn't matter, though. He was with the gypsy; not Gringoire, her supposedly husband, Phoebus, her love, or the cursed Quasimodo, her savior. He possessed the Bohemian. He threw her to the ground; he was tired of her rejections. He would make her his, whether she wanted him or not.

He vigorously tore at her garments until she scarcely had anything between them. She shrieked as he climbed on top of her. She could not stop him. She ceased struggling and began to think of her Quasimodo, not Phoebus. Quasimodo would find a way to save her, maybe not this time, but from a lifetime of hell with the priest.

--

I took a direct quote from the book (two actually combined into one). It was when Frollo said "Kiss me etc..". So I can't really take credit for that. Thanks to my reviewers, don't think you've snuck under the radar YamiLPFan and Lillebule; without you, I would cry.


	5. Les Oiseaux Qu'on Met en Cage

La Esmeralda was all by herself in the tiny room. The priest left hours ago. She thanked the Holy Mother, the only heavenly figure she felt would listen to her, for taking the wretched man away from her. The Bohemian prayed that she would never be cursed with his sight again. She didn't care if he never came back and she starved to death, as long as she never saw him.

She suddenly began to give dry heaves at the thought of the priest. It had been days since she last ate; the loaves of bread that the bell ringer had given her at Notre Dame now seemed like an unattainable delicacy. She yearned for anything to fill her starving stomach, but then woefully remembered that if anyone brought food, it would be the priest.

Sometimes, though, she was glad that her stomach was empty. If it had been full, she surely would have thrown up on the priest several times, and she feared what he his reaction would have been. The Bohemian had been quick to realize that there were two sides to the priest.

At times, he gently held her and whispered words of love and a happy future, which La Esmeralda wanted nothing of, but she was just happy that he wasn't hurting her. Other times, he would savagely take her with an animal lust in his eyes. She learned the look he got before he turned into the wild one; his eyes would grow wide and mad, then he would look at her with jealousy written upon his face.

She knew not what caused his sudden changes, but she was most frightened of them. When he was near, she prayed that he would be in a calm disposition.

She paced around the room, looking for anything to take her mind away from her tormentor, but it was hard. Everything in the hut brought back unpleasant memories; even her very clothing reminded her of the priest, for it was his outer cloak he gave to her after he destroyed her white dress. She tried to close her eyes, but when she did, her mind would betray her and play unwanted memories.

The gypsy girl desperately wanted sleep; but she feared that if she went to sleep, she would wake up with the priest's mouth on hers as he desperately tired to take her. It happened more than once, the Egyptian waking up to find the priest on top of her. But she could not think of such horrible things now.

She vainly hoped that he would be killed; she highly doubted it.

La Esmeralda's eyes wandered to the door. Several times she had tried to break it, but it stood firm as a stone barrier, same as the walls. The hut was stronger than it looked.

Turning her attention elsewhere, she looked to the heavens. From the small holes in the roof, she could see the pale blue sky. It had been a long time since she really saw the sky. Once, her body had been bronze from exposure to the sun, but now it was growing pale. On her shoulders were tiny freckles that appeared once her tan left her.

Unfortunately, these brought back unwanted memories, too. The priest would kiss her shoulders and exclaim that he loved her small imperfections. She had become an object that was there for him to play with; the once free dancing gypsy girl had become a possession. She still had struggled against him, but in the end he had always got what he wanted.

Trying to comfort herself, the gypsy tried to remember what day it was. The Bohemian had lost count of the days that she can been in captivity. It seemed like weeks, but surely she would have died of starvation if it had been that long. That was another odd thing, while she had become hungrier and thinner with every passing day without food, the priest didn't seem to mind.

The Egyptian thought bitterly to herself that the goblin monk was happy enough feasting off her torment.

In the corner of the hut, she saw something that she had missed before. She wandered up to it and carefully picked it up -- it was the flowery halo the priest had made for her. La Esmeralda quickly threw it down in disgust. At times, when his eyes were full of lust, he would jam the crown on her head just stare at her.

Her mind wandered to the time that he had dragged her back from her little escapade in the forest. He had been most satisfied from conquering her and looked at her with a smug expression. She curled into the smallest ball that she could, hoping her captor would leave her alone.

To her disdain, the simple action seemed to draw his eyes to her. He walked over to her and stooped down to be eye level with his prize.

"I tell you," he said slowly, "you will never escape again. But if you do, chasing makes the prize only sweeter." He reached out a hand to caress her cheek, but she pulled her head away from his touch.

With an angry look, the priest stood up and held something out for her to look at. She slowly regarded the object; it was a bronze key. He gave her a horrible smile and walked to the door. Placing the key into the doorknob, he turned it, and the gypsy heard it lock.

To make sure she was still watching, the priest then spun around to face her before placing the key on top of the rafters. He gave her a nasty smile again; there was no way she could reach it.

Her heart sank; she was locked in the room with the awful man. La Esmeralda turned to the wall and cried. She longed to be back safe in the court of the Duke of Egypt, Clopin Trouillefou. After awhile, she looked about, for she had not heard her captor in quite some time. But he was there in the room, just gazing upon her as if she were a holy saint.

She turned away from him and leant her head against the wall once more.

"Do not turn away from me," he said almost mockingly. He walked over to her corner and sat down next to the gypsy. His closeness filled the Bohemian with dread. "We belong to each other now. You as my wife, and I as your husband."

"But, goblin monk," she hissed, "I am already married, four years to the troubadour Pierre Gringoire. The Duke of Egypt said so himself."

"Ah, but I am a priest, and our marriage is valid in the eyes of the Lord," he replied contemptuously. La Esmeralda, clearly oblivious to the laws of priesthood, fell silent.

Was it true, that since he was ordained in the Holy Church that they were married? She hoped not. "But I do not want to be married to such an old man," she said, hoping it would wound the priest.

He gave her a sly smile then said, "But that doesn't matter. I have taken you for a wife, and we have consummated our marriage, which I know you never did with Master Pierre. So come, my wife, kiss me."

She turned her head to the wall again and cried. It couldn't be true? She would rather die than be chained to this man for the rest of her life. And what of her Phoebus? She could never be with him if, in the eyes of the Lord, she was married to another man.

The Egyptian felt the priest brush her hair and push it away from her face. She did not try to stop him; she was too tired to care anymore. He attempted to wipe away her tears, but every time he dried her face, fresh tears would stream down.

"Weep not, woman," the priest said crossly. "I will honor you more than any husband has honored his wife before. My very existence is centered around you." This only made the poor girl cry more. She pressed her body as close to the wall as she could.

"Wife, you are beautiful," he sighed as he began to stroke her arm.

"You are hideous, old man," she cried.

"Would you think me more attractive if I wore a solder's garment and carried a sword? I can try, but I promise I will not be as fetching as the golden haired Captain of the Archers." He watched her reaction, which was more tears, then continued. "Your Gringoire once told me that he much preferred living in rags than being trapped in a soldier's regalia. I must say, I do agree. It is much better to be independent than a slave to the crown."

The Bohemian was weeping aloud now; the thought of her Phoebus broke her heart. He would never want her now, for she belonged to another man. She felt certain that she would die from her pain.

"Not to worry, my love; we will not live in rags. The two of us will have a comfortable existence out in the country, away from Monsieur Châteaupers." At this point, Esmeralda felt like he just kept talking to revel in her anguish.

"A life in rags with Phoebus, even Gringoire, would be better than a life of riches with you. If you have any love for me, you will kill me, and save me from this torment," she wept.

He brutally grabbed her shoulder and pinned her to the ground. "Your duty as my wife is to please me. I am your master whom you must obey, and I want you to live. So, my love, will you kiss me?" he said before claiming her mouth.

The days had passed in much of the same manner -- the priest would be overcome with passion and share it with the gypsy girl. She soon became disgusted with herself as his scent lingered on her. He even followed her into her dreams; it seemed there was no place she could escape from him.

The Egpytian sighed and thought about the day she was awoken by a faint breeze gently going through her hair. She opened her eyes and gaped; the door was open. The priest was standing by the entrance looking out into the forest. From her place on the floor, La Esmeralda took in the bright green of the woods. For many days she, had been confined to the horrible hut, but now she was seeing the outside world again. The Bohemian longed to run outside but did not dare with the priest standing in the doorway. She inhaled deeply and gazed out.

Her breathing captured the attention of the priest, and he turned around to face her. She quickly shut her eyes, hoping to trick him into thinking she was asleep, but he could not be fooled.

"Beloved," he hissed, he was in a foul mood, "I'm sure you will be saddened to hear that I must leave you and go make preparations for our future."

"I hope you never return," she spat.

"Who would rescue you from this place, then? Not even your hunchback knows where you are," the angry priest retorted. "If you would rather starve," he said as he held out some bread, "I shall not stop you." With that, he stormed out of the hut, with the bread, and locked the door.

La Esmeralda was both relieved and angered. She did not know how he got the loaf of bread, for she had not seen him leave to get food, but it was unbearably cruel to leave her without it.

She ran to the door and pounded on it, but he did not come back. The gypsy girl sat down and cursed the priest; he was a wretched man.

As the hours passes, her hunger became too much for the poor creature. She tried to sleep, but she either dreamt about the priest or food. Filled with despair, the Egyptian began to wistfully plan an escape, but food managed to find its way into her day dreams.

It was at this point that the gypsy girl really began to hope that she would never see the priest again. Perhaps he was taking her words into consideration and was letting her die. Of course, he would do it in the cruelest way possible, but she would be with the Blessed Virgin soon.

The time slowly passed, and La Esmeralda was happy to be left alone. She was glad that after all the attention she received from her so called husband that she would die in peace, away from him.

--

Thanks to YamiLPFan and LilyHellsing for offering real words of encouragement and not comparing my female protagonist's personality to an insect. I'm not quite sure where Lillebule gets off, but I'm certain it's close to Crazy Town. But, I can assure you, YamiLPFan and LillyHellsing, you two get off at Cool City.

I'm kidding, Lillebule.


	6. Où est–elle?

After the maddening cries of the bells of Notre Dame on that woeful day, the Parisians were almost happy not to hear them the next. The day after that, the common folk went about their business, the silent cathedral far from their minds. On the third day, people began to wonder -- perhaps the demon that rang the bells had died. And on the fourth day, the city was rampant with rumors of how the hunchback had slaughtered his master, who had also gone missing, before hanging himself from one of the beams in the bell tower.

Brave youths gallantly bragged about how they snuck up to the bells and saw the swinging corpse of the bell ringer. Mothers began to warn their children that if they did not mind their parents, the ghost of the repulsive Quasimodo would visit them in the night and eat them. The children took this to heart and obeyed their parent's orders without a moment's hesitation.

Everyone in the city was alive with stories to share, save for two men. One of them was too busy enjoying and respecting the movement of the lovely river to be bothered with silly stories. Never before had he noticed how truly beautiful water could be. The way it moved, the way it felt, even the way it smelled, fascinated the young man.

Of course, he still enjoyed architecture, who wouldn't? But there was something that water possessed that cold stone never could: life. The river was so full of it. The plants around water were always green, mammals thrived off of it. There were even animals that _lived _in the water. Oh, how he did envy fish.

He thanked God for his ability to appreciate water. He did love it so.

Pierre Gringoire gave his leg a small pat, and the animal that was grazing nearby trotted up to him. He petted the pretty thing before asking, "Djali, what time is it?" The goat, happy to be acknowledged, gave its companion a small _bah_ before raising and dropping its golden hoof ten times, for it was ten o'clock in the morning.

"By faith," the philosopher exclaimed, "I'll never know how she taught you that!" He patted the goat's back one more time before bending down to examine the river again.

When he looked into the mirror-like water, he gave a small start. Before, where the water reflected the clear blue sky, it now reflected an ugly head draped in red hair -- it was the other man unaware of the accusations the city had against the poor hunchback. Indeed, it_ was_ the poor hunchback.

Quasimodo, not at all insulted by the poet's reaction, looked upon the other man. His one good eye was red and his face was swollen, more so than usual. Gringoire, a true philosopher, recognized these as symptoms of a man who had been weeping.

Strange, Gringoire thought, that a creature such as the hunchback would have a soul that could feel pain. Even the blessed fish that swam in the river did not cry tears of emotional angst.

"That is the dancing girl's animal, is it not?" came the ragged voice of the hunchback.

"Dancing girl?" the poet was temporarily confused. "Ah, yes. La Esmeralda, the dancing girl. Yes, this is her goat."

"Then she is alive?"

"She was alive. I'm not sure what happened to her. She was a pretty thing, wasn't she?"

Quasimodo, who had anxiously been reading the poet's lips, gave a small sigh. He was not worthy to speak of the gypsy's beauty. She was too perfect, and he was a wart on the face of mankind. He had always felt comfortable with his body until he laid his one good eye on her. The first time he saw her he knew that he was unworthy to be called a man.

"Do you know where she is?" the hunchback continued his interview.

"Hmm? Oh, the gyspy, yes. She was with the Archdeacon of Josas the last time I saw her, but she has not been hanged. If she had, her body would be in Mountfaucon, where it most certainly is not."

The deformed man let out a sad sigh, yet he wondered how the man in front of him knew for sure that the gypsy was not in the graveyard.

"May I touch the goat?" the bell ringer hesitantly asked. He did enjoy animals, much for the same reason as the poet. He had always been able to sway the rats that had wandered into the bell tower into companionship with a little bread and cheese.

Gringoire, deep in thought about the river, acknowledged Quasimodo's question with the slightest of nods. He was much too fascinated with the river to think about another human being.

Quasimodo slowly stroked the goat's fur. This simple action brought back memories of the gypsy girl playing with the animal during her stay at Notre Dame. He would watch through the little window as the goat pranced and jumped about the cell trying to make its mistress smile.

He moved his hands up in between the goat's horns. It suddenly perked up and moved its head closer to the hunchback's fingers. Clearly, Quasimodo had found a ticklish spot that the goat seemed to enjoy. The bell ringer twisted his lips into a small smile; the goat really did have a way of charming people.

"Strange that an abundance of water can become such a dangerous predicament," the poet mused to no one in particular. Quasimodo, thinking about something other than La Esmeralda for the first time in days, agreed with the man kneeling next to the river. Too much water for one man could drown him, and too much rain for crops could kill towns. But without water civilizations would vanish.

What did it matter now? The hunchback had lost his reason for living. He had failed the gypsy, and he was not worthy to walk alive on the earth. He had debated throwing himself off the north tower; but every time he began to walk, he found himself at the gypsy's cell. He finally came to the conclusion that if there was a chance that she yet lived, he would seek her out.

"I saw you with the dancing gypsy girl," Quasimodo remarked to Girngoire.

The poet swung his torso around to look at the poor hunchback before saying, "Is every man in Paris captivated with her in one way or another? First, I have the priest berating me about being in her company, and then, in the same breath, he questions me about the girl as if he were fascinated with her very nature. Now you're doing it."

"How did you know her?" Quasimodo asked, hoping to find anything that could save his gypsy.

"She agreed to marry me for four years so I would not be killed by the residents of La Cours des Miracles," the poet said as if he had mentioned it thousands of times before.

"She has a compassionate heart. She saved me, too, from the angry townspeople," the hunchback shared. Gringoire gave a small nod in remembrance and understanding. La Esmeralda is what the hideous creature had been weeping over, thought the troubadour, he misses the gypsy.

"We are in her debt." Gringoire, who could tell where the conversation was heading, for he heard a similar speech before, stood up and gave the red-haired man his most serious look.

"Now listen," he said. "Whatever happens to the gypsy girl is not our fault. She got herself into a mess, and it's not my job to save her from it. She risked nothing by having mercy on either of us; you probably want to risk our lives for her. Let me tell you, I am happy alive."

With that, Gringoire returned his gaze back to the river. Was all of Paris infatuated with the girl? Well, maybe not everyone. He remembered the blood thirsty cries that demanded the sweet girl's death.

"Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky," Gringoire said. "Living in that gorgeous church is usually an honor given only to priests and criminals. No one that is not bound to the church in some way lives there, besides you. What I wouldn't give to live in that divine architecture." Gringoire mused. When he turned around to face the hunchback, all he saw was the head of the retreating Quasimodo limping back to Notre Dame."

"Strange fellow," the poet remarked to the goat. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the water once more.

After several hours of philosophical pondering, the poet decided to take a nap on the side of his beloved river. He called the goat to him, and together they laid down for a nice nap.

The unfortunate poet was having a lovely dream until strong hands shook him violently. He groggily opened his eyes and half-heartedly tried to stop the shaking. Only when he had fully sat up did the attack stop. He begrudgingly looked at the man who had woken him and gave a small frown.

"I was dreaming about water," the poet said woefully.

"A new fancy?" quipped the man.

"It is in my nature to love everything."

"You are a happy man."

"Yes, I am. And you seem to be in happier spirits than I have seen you in of late. Have you killed the gypsy girl that bothered you so?" Gringoire asked.

"Perhaps," said the priest as he gave a wicked smile. "She may be dead. Or perhaps I am going to save her immortal soul from sin."

Gringoire, completely oblivious to the malicious tone of his former teacher's voice, was happy for the Bohemian. "The poor girl. If she had been hanged, she would have surely gone to Hell. I doubt they would have given her a mass, right, Father?"

"Indeed."

"Your hunchback was asking about her. Strange creature," the poet remarked again.

With the mention of Quasimodo, the priest grew silent. Out in the wilderness, he had given the hunchback not the slightest thought. Now that he was going back to Notre Dame, he would have to face the beast. He should have killed the brute when he had a chance.

"He was quite curious about the gypsy. He seemed rather sad about her absence. I told him to perk up and enjoy Notre Dame's architecture, but the poor boy didn't hear me," Gringoire continued.

Frollo, who was only half listening, gave a slight smirk. Of course Quasimodo couldn't hear the poet, he was deaf.

"Look at the river," Gringoire said, trying to get any kind of response from the priest.

"What about it?"

"Why, it is very clear today!"

"It is always clear," the priest pointed out.

"Yes, but today it is exceptionally clear," Gringoire smiled. The priest gave his former student a baffled look; the man was becoming crazy.

"How goes it with the gypsies?"

"Oh, they are fine. Hurt from the fight at Notre Dame, but they are fairing well," Gringoire responded.

"That is good; Paris needs its thieves and vagabonds in a healthy state."

"I am not a thief."

"You are very close to becoming one," said the priest. "Where is your gaily colored suit?"

"I have given it up. Yellow and red are too flashy for me; I much prefer my simple browns and whites."

"As long as you are happy."

"I am happy." With this, Frollo gave the philosopher a sly smile and walked away.

Gringoire watched on as the priest took almost the same path to Notre Dame as the hunchback. He turned to the goat and said, "Why, Djali, this is a strange day indeed!"

--

Thanks for reviewing!


	7. Intervention de Frollo

Thanks to Lillebule and Lily Hellsing. Oh, and all the titles are the song titles from the French musical _Notre Dame de Paris_. I am editing, but I might take awhile.

--

Claude Frollo's procession to the church had been slow; but by the time he reached the door, he had come up with a plan. It was very simple and obvious, but it would work, at least for the time being.

He looked at the cathedral. It was a marvelous sight. After spending many years dwelling inside of it, he felt a small connection to Notre Dame. For most of his life, he had been content to be its caretaker, giving everything he had for its welfare. The Archdeacon had once been satisfied with the prospect of dying inside the church. Now he just wanted to leave city and the church. He wanted to take his most cherished possession away from everyone. He still believed that she would grow to love him. She was but a child now, but when she grew older, she would understand true love.

Merely being in her company intoxicated the priest. Actually being with the girl was far better than what he had imagined in his cell. Many times in the cold nights in Notre Dame, he woke up moaning her name but was always disappointed to find himself alone. So, when he had actually had the gypsy in his arms, he was afraid that he would wake up to find it another cruel dream.

As he marched he dreamt of a little cottage that they would live in together, where he could have her whenever he wanted. Of course it had to be far from Paris. The simple hut that she was kept in now was never meant to be a permanent lodging.

Wherever they lived had to be far from the place that harbored memories and hopes of escape for the girl. In a new environment, she would be completely dependent on him. The priest planned that an acceptance from the girl would only come when she was ripped away from the world she was used to.

He abandoned his day dreaming and returned his attention back to the church. It almost looked menacing now. That was odd, he thought. From far away it looked almost inviting; but as he approached it, the church look like it was rejecting him.

The priest expected as much. He had broken his holy vows. But that wasn't uncommon. He had heard stories of mountain priests that had taken mistresses, some of them had even married. Because of his one sin, he thought that the Blessed Virgin would not condemn him.

All men are sinners, he reminded himself. He had taken the gypsy as his wife, perhaps there was no ceremony, but he now considered the dancer as his wife. In the scheme of things, he believed his sin of taking a wife as small. There were worse things that a priest could do.

He was coming closer to Notre Dame. The overbearing presence of the church filled Dom Claude Frollo with guilt. He had almost turned around so he wouldn't have to face the eyes of the Holy Saints, when he was filled with resolution.

He could not begin a new life with the Egyptian without money -- which was up in his cell. He would have to cast his eyes downward when he entered the church. He stopped momentarily to look at his surroundings.

He sighed. There was the spot his brother had fallen to. What did it matter now, though? The boy had been a beggar and a drunk. He brought shame to their name while he was but in school. Once he was out of school, he was even worse. Frollo tried to push the image of his mangled brother far from his mind, but he could not.

Looking up to the north tower, where the damned hunchback always perched, Frollo was surprised to see the twisted body of the bell ringer absent. This would give him the advantage. He could avoid a confrontation with the beast if he was careful.

He slowly opened the freshly repaired doors of Notre Dame and dashed inside. He looked around, glad to see that his presence seemed, so far, unnoticed. He hastily started in the direction of his cell, when a strong jerk from behind pulled him to the ground.

Frollo knew who his attacker was before his head hit the ground. How foolish it was for him to think that the ever watchful bell ringer would not see him approach the church.

Quasimodo jumped on top of him and grabbed his neck in one large hand. His face was a frightful sight full of anger and hate. His bright red hair matched the brightness of his swollen face. He truly looked like the vicious creature all of Paris thought him to be.

The priest, desperately trying to get out of the vice-like grip, knew that there was only one thing that he could do. With his strength quickly leaving him, the priest groped for his dagger that he kept about his person ever since Quasimodo attacked him the first time.

With one strong push, he drove the blade deep into the hunchback's shoulder and quickly pulled it out.

The hunchback, temporarily stunned, loosened his stone grip from his master's neck. He moved his hand up to his wound and felt the warm fluid in between his fingers. Quasimodo suddenly felt the priest give a mighty shove and push him off.

The dazed bell ringer quickly tried to stand up, but the priest gave him a fierce look. The years of happy servitude and camaraderie between the two forced Quasimodo to remain kneeling. He looked at his master, who had never looked so vexed.

He saw the priest move forward with the blood stained dagger in his hand. Quasimodo felt a sharp pressure against his neck as Frollo pressed the bit of metal to his skin. He waited for his master to give the final strike.

Frollo looked down at the deformed youth. All that stood between him and his future with the gypsy was kneeling before him, waiting to die. He desperately desired to kill the boy, but he couldn't. Every fiber in his being was protesting against harming the hunchback.

He slowly lowered the knife away from Quasimodo. Still wanting to demonstrate his mastery over the hunchback, the Archdeacon gave him a tremendous slap across his face. The bell ringer gave the priest a weary look but did not react.

The elder man grabbed the younger man's face and jerked it upwards.

"Look at me, Quasimodo," the priest hissed. "Only I know where the gypsy is. If you kill me she will die, for no one can find her. She is locked in a room, safe from the citizens of Paris."

"You have not harmed her?" The hunchback sobbed.

"She is mine," the master said. "I have saved her from the peasants that want her dead. She owes me her life."

The twisted logic of the priest dismayed the hunchback. He cringed when he thought about what the priest had no doubt done to the gypsy girl. A murderous rage filled Quasimodo, but he restrained himself. For if it was true what the priest said, he would condemn his gypsy to starvation.

"Let me see her, Father." Quasimodo said from his spot on the ground.

"No."

"Oh, but a sign, any sign, that she is alive and I will be your servant forever. Please, lead me to her."

"Why should I do that? No doubt you would kill me once you have found the dancing girl's location. Her welfare no longer concerns you."

"Father, have mercy. I swear that I will serve you forever. Just give me a sign that she lives!"

The priest regarded the youth groveling in front of him. He had not worked this situation into his plans. "If I do, how am I to know that you will not harm me?" He hissed.

"Give me the dagger and I will happily take my own life; just before I do, show me that she is alive."

"Your promises will be nothing when you have saved the gypsy and I am murdered."

"Take me not to the gypsy, then. Surely you can prove that you have saved her, as you claim," Quasimodo said. At this point, he just wanted for his love to be alive. If he should have to kill himself, the grave would not stop him from liberating her from the priest.

"If I prove to you that she is alive, would you follow my every request? Would you even hurt your dancing girl, if I asked?"

"I could never harm her!"

"Then you will never see her," the priest said almost wistfully.

Quasimodo gnashed his teeth. He promised to become the man's most loyal servant, and he would, as long as the gypsy remained alive.

"Good priest, I will do whatever you command, as long as it not against a single hair on her head. If you desire a man dead, I will kill for you. Please, let me serve you," cried the hunchback.

The priest considered this proposition. He really had no use for the hunchback. On the other hand, he had proved to be a valuable companion and servant many times. The logical part of him whispered that he should kill the youth and be done with it. The more compassionate part, which had a much quieter whisper these days, said to let the boy live. It was obvious that he treasured the girl more than his own life.

"Will you do anything I ask?" the priest inquired

"I will fling myself from the bell tower, if you so wish it," Quasimodo replied in all sincerity.

"Then, as a test," the Archdeacon said suddenly full of jealousy. "Kill the Captain of the Archers, Monsieur Phoebus de Châteaupers."

With that, he flung the necklace that he had taken from the gypsy's neck to Quasimodo. The bell ringer picked it up and examined it. A sudden spark of recognition came to his eyes. He took out the little shoe and wept.

The priest gave a smile before grabbing the hunchback's face. "I want his head," he mouthed to the stunned Quasimodo.


	8. Beau Comme Le Soleil

Thank you gravity01, Zephyr721, YamiLPFan, Grantaire, Lillebule, and LilyHellsing.

--

As night slowly crept over the French city, the all over good will that the city was filled with during the day was replaced with a different kind of energy. Thieves, harlots, murderers, and tramps leisurely began to move about the dark city without worry of being arrested. Once the sun went down, their reign over Paris began.

The dark streets and corners of the metropolis were the perfect places to commit crime. Who would ever see a wallet being pick-pocketed or a throat being slit? No one. The only protection a man had against the elements of the night was what he could carry with him. When the sun was absent from the sky, there was no law beside survival of the fittest.

After a stab in the back, one man had learned that rule the most difficult way possible, but he was wiser for it now. His injury was the result of a reckless mistake that had been urged on by the never ending desire he had for women. Luckily for him, he had quickly recovered from his wound, both physically and mentally.

This man slowly made his way through a large house before stopping to listen. Everything remained silent and undisturbed. He was still very gifted at sneaking about. He pushed his blonde hair away from his handsome face and moved toward the door with a slight smile. Tonight there was a blonde fairer and prettier than his Fluer-de-Lis waiting for him. She was a lovely thing, they all were, but there was something about her that made him crazy.

He opened the door and stepped into the Paris night. The blonde took in a deep breath of contentment. There was not a time that he cherished more than night, for was a creature of it -- he flourished better in its shadowed light.

Some people, like his sweet little fiancé, were not meant for the night. She was a simple woman who would gossip and find other simple pleasures to entertain herself, but she was happy. Never in her life had she felt a hardship other than the lack of a new dress for a small occasion. There was not much to her, nothing mysterious.

His intriguing Gabrielle was quite the opposite, she was nighttime incarnate. She had big questioning brown eyes and a knowing smile. He adored that smile that gave away her innocent façade. When he would come for her, she would give him that lusty smile and play coy. The game that she made between the two drove her male counterpart wild. He loved her fake protests and her soft pleas for rescue. But in the end, she would give the blonde the smile reserved only for him and cave into his every demand.

It had been days since his last meeting with the exquisite Gabrielle and his head was filled with nothing but the thought of her. He made his way through the darkness until he came across their meeting place, The Eve's Apple, a place he loved more than any woman in the world. There would always be a plethora of beautiful girls, but good wine could only be found at The Eve's Apple.

He hurried up to their small reserved room and peeped inside. It was empty; the little wench hadn't come yet. He quickly walked into the room and set out for some wine, there was always a bottle somewhere. Moments later, he victoriously held up an almost full bottle. The blonde smiled happily, wine would make the evening even more pleasurable.

He tipped the bottle back and let the liquid fill his mouth. It was going to be a good night.

The door opened and the man watched as Gabrielle timidly made her way into the room. She looked around the room until her eyes came upon the man. She stood still for a moment before murmuring, "Oh, Phoebus."

The fair haired beauty gave the Captain her darling smile and brazenly walked toward him. Yes, he thought, tonight was going to be very good.

Hours later, the drunken Phoebus staggered out of The Eve's Apple with the equally drunk Gabrielle on his arm. They merrily sang aloud together not aware of the tiny snickers they received from passing observers.

"My love, you are absolutely beautiful. I will love no other but you," declared the golden haired man as he abruptly halted his steps to look at her brown eyes.

"That is good, my brave Captain, for I love none but you," came Gabrielle's reply, then, as an after thought, she added. "Let us hope your fiancé does not find out."

They both let out a feral laugh that sent them back into each other's arms. The couple was almost completely oblivious to their environment, until a dark object that came out of the shadows and into the silvery moonlight. They both suddenly jumped and looked around, eager to investigate what had disturbed them.

"Look," cried Gabrielle. "It is the ghost of the hunchback. Phoebus, my love, he has come to get you!"

They both began to laugh again as the form came closer.

"It is no ghost, dearest, for the hunchback is alive. He comes to make you his bride," said Phoebus. "See, he draws near. He comes to drag you to the bell tower."

"In that case, let us hope his fidelity is better than yours! Kiss me, my Phoebus," she laughed.

He pulled her closer, not aware of the threat that was bearing down on him. He played with her hair and kissed the pouting lips he loved so much. The poor captain was so enwrapped in the moment that he did not see the bell ringer stop only yards away from the couple, but Gabrielle did.

"Phoebus," she gasped, "that wretched creature is an ill sign. It is the witching hour, let us go."

"Nonsense," Phoebus boasted. "Be gone, monster. Go back to the grave from which you came."

"Phoebus," Gabrielle said warily as she tugged at his soldier's uniform, "I do not think he's dead."

Phoebus pulled out his sword and said, "Shall we see if the ghost bleeds?"

He walked dangerously close to the hunchback and pointed the sword at him. The beast just stood there, looking anxiously at him.

"Please, sir," came a voice from the hunchback. "I have been sent to kill you. Run; for if you do not, you forfeit your life."

"You dare threaten me," Phoebus roared. The hunchback remained silent and looked upon the blonde.

In a fit of drunken rage, Phoebus ran towards the hunchback, charging his foe with all his might. If only he had his steed with him, he would have stomped the disgusting man to death.

Right before he reached his opponent, the hunchback disappeared. This confused Phoebus so much that he disregarded his surroundings and ran into the wall. He slumped to the ground holding his forehead. He could feel his silky hair becoming wet with a mixture of blood and sweat.

Quasimodo approached his wounded prey. This was the man that had brought so much pain to his beloved, but he was the only man that made her happy. Killing this Phoebus would be like killing the gypsy girl's goat. It would devastate her, and the sad bell ringer never wanted to harm the Bohemian in any way. But he came to the conclusion that he had to do it.

The hunchback limped forward, his body aching from the pain of his wound from the priest. The humid night air did nothing to soothe it. At least, since he had packed it earlier, the bleeding had stopped.

Phoebus tried to stand up several times, but each time he tried he fell ungracefully back into the dirt. An airy laugh floated through the night. Gabrielle walked pass the hunchback and grabbed the arm of her lover. "Good sir, if you defend me any more, you shall end up dead," she laughed.

Phoebus, clearly missing what brought so much amusement to the drunken woman, pulled at her proffered hand and dragged her down to the ground. "Cursed woman, I fight not for you," he cried.

Quasimodo watched the scene unfurl. He slightly moved forward to help the golden haired woman, who was gazing up at the soldier with glossy eyes. It was obvious that she was not used to being treated in such a horrid manner. She said something to the bell ringer could not make out. She was speaking rapidly and her mouth was moving too fast to read.

The man glared down at her and said something which caused the woman to cry harder. Sadness filled his heart -- this was the man that his Esmeralda lived for. This disgusting drunk of a man was the gypsy girl's sun and moon. At that moment, he knew he could not kill Phoebus.

He turned his back to the couple. He would leave them to their own troubles. He hung his head. He would never see his gypsy again, but La Esmeralda's love would live.

He felt a sudden change in his surroundings, without looking he knew that the man whose life he had spared was charging him. As before, Quasimodo jumped out of the way at the last moment sending the Captain into a state of confusion.

The blonde haired man looked around for his foe. In the silvery light, he could make out his twisted outline not far from him. He turned his entire body to face the beast. He would end this humiliation right now. He ran at the creature and raised his sword high. Phoebus briefly closed his eyes and let the weapon fall.

A triumphant feeling spread throughout his body when he felt the sword make contact with something soft and fleshy. He opened his eyes, ready to revel in his victory, but the scene awaiting him was much different than what he thought.

Gabrielle was on her knees with her face looking up to him but her eyes half closed. The blue dress that she was wearing was becoming stained by a dark liquid with every passing second; even her fair long hair was becoming a dark color. A large wound at the base of her neck was pouring blood over her.

Phoebus dropped to the ground next to her, franticly trying to save the woman, but it was no use. The blood seeping out of her wound was like her own personal hourglass. With every drop of blood that escaped from her body, her death drew nearer.

Quasimodo looked on the dying girl. When Phoebus had run after him, he supposed that the girl thought he was leaving her and began to follow him. When Quasimodo moved out of Phoebus's path, the girl was not far behind him. Before the hunchback could make a move to stop her, the captain was already raising his sword to strike.

When the girl was hit, it took her a moment to comprehend what happened before she fell to her knees. She was not crying; in fact, she was not making any noise at all. The only way the hunchback could tell she was still alive was the small gestures her fingers tried to make. It was obvious to the hunchback that she wanted to stroke the face of her deadly lover one last time but lacked the energy to do it.

Phoebus, too obsessed with the wound, did not notice her hand and let her die without her final wish being granted. He could tell when she died. The lovely smile that she gave only to him faded from her face along with the twinkle in her brown eyes.

He wept over his fallen love.. Her body was bathed in the moonlight, and it made her soft skin almost glow white. Her hair created a halo around her beautiful face. It was so tragic to see his beauty slaughtered so recklessly

He feared this haunting moment would forever be engrained in his memory, but he did not want that. Phoebus took off his cloak and threw it over the corpse, hoping that it would drown out the sight of her dead body swathed in moonlight.

He walked away from the girl and Quasimodo, looking for the nearest place where he could drink away the memory of his dead Gabrielle.

Quasimodo approached the body. He also wept for the girl's untimely death. It had been so unnecessary, and it was all because of him. He took the discarded coat off her body and arranged the corpse so it was facing the east, toward the place of Christ's death and resurrection. He then crossed her arms and gave a small prayer for the girl. He was no priest, but he knew God was listening.

He looked at the bloodstained coat of the soldier. He remembered several times peering over the city and seeing this garment move through the streets. To the hunchback, it had almost become a sign more for Phoebus than the king that the Captain swore to serve. The bell ringer once again thought of his lost dancing girl; she would be happy that her love was not dead.

The hunchback looked at the girl's body once more, and his eyes lingered on the golden hair. In the moonlight, it looked almost exactly the same color as Phoebus'. A horrible idea filled the sad Quasimodo's mind, but he quickly dismissed it.

He began to stand up when he imagined that it was the gypsy girl lying on the ground, broken and dead. He would not let that happen; but there was only one way to be near and protect the gypsy. He had promised himself, on the love for the Bohemian, that he would not kill Phoebus; but could it be possible to trick the priest?

He knelt down to the body, shame filling his entire being, and picked up her blonder hair and cut off a generous amount of it. Once he had a large enough portion, he tailored it to be the right length of the captain's.

When the hair was ready, he picked up the blood spattered coat and stood up. He let out a nervous breath; if he was not able to outwit the priest, he would never see his love again. He slowly made his way through the dark streets to Notre Dame.

Dread filled his twisted body. The priest was a smart man and he would be able to see through the hunchback's plan. Quasimodo sighed, his future depended on how sane of a mind the priest possessed that night.


	9. Tu Vas Me Detruire

Claude Frollo stood at his window, lost in thought. He had grown use to the sleeping form of the gypsy in his arms during the nights, and he desired to be back with her. To wake up with his fingers intertwined in her hair and her bare skin pressed against his was pure bliss.

Thinking about the poor girl alone in the cabin made his heart quicken in his chest. What if she escaped? Would she find her way back to Paris and the ones that longed for her death? No, he reassured himself, there was no way for the gypsy to leave the hut.

A light wind came in through the window and knocked over one of his candles; the melted wax spilt over one of his tomes. He carelessly walked over to the book and absently began to clean away the wax from its cover. Once he was done, he lifted the book off the wooden table and opened it to look at the title; it was one of his Alchemy books. Frollo flipped through the pages, his eyes reading but not really comprehending the words. The book seemed so trivial, yet he felt a certain connection to it. Even though he had dedicated his life to his academics, his knowledge in the sciences had not been enough. Like the La Esmeralda, Alchemy had become an obsession.

He set the tome back on the table. He had other things to think about. His eyes wandered to the bags full of coins that he had placed on the same wooden surface. Even though Jehan had tried his hardest to relieve Frollo of his money, he had failed miserably. Like the priest had promised the gypsy, there was plenty of money for them to live comfortably.

A noise from the door brought the priest out of his trance. Quasimodo was limping into the room with something clutched in his arms.

The hunchback threw down his burden and looked at his master. The Archdeacon quickly scanned the discarded object and glared doubtfully at the red-haired youth. Frollo picked up the coat, still disbelieving what he saw. It was the soldier garb that he envied so much, covered in blood. The priest looked at the hunchback again, unable to accept what Quasimodo had done.

The Captain, the soldier, the rival, was dead. The priest moved toward the bell ringer and asked, "Where is the body?"

Quasimodo looked at him but did not answer. The priest slowly repeated the question and waited for the deaf man to reply. For the second time, he did not. Frollo stalked dangerously close to the bell ringer. He grabbed the boy's head and made sure that his eyes were looking only at him.

"The man is not dead," Frollo hissed.

"No," Quasimodo protested.

"Leave," the priest barked and turned his back on the bell ringer.

Quasimodo could not move; he could not kill Phoebus, but he could not lie to his master. He stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to obey his father's command.

"Until you leave," the priest turned his head to the hunchback, "I shall not. The gypsy will starve on your account."

The bell ringer felt defeated and slowly walked out of the priest's cell.

Frollo watched the boy leave; it was a most miserable display. When he had charged the hunchback with his deadly mission, he knew that the boy would not be able to do it. Even when the priest had purposely tried to kill the soldier, he had failed.

He glanced out the window, the night sky was fading into the light pink of a new dawn. The priest hurriedly gathered up his belongings. He needed to get back to his wife with food and drink.

Once he was done packing, Dom Claude Frollo made his way down the silent cathedral. When he reached the outside, he looked upwards to see if Quasimodo was on his usual perch; he was not. Believing that he was not being watched, the Archdeacon made his way through the streets of Paris, hardly noticing the slight shock he gave passing Parisians. Along his path out of the city, the priest found a vendor that was selling spiced wine and some cheese. It wasn't the priest's first choice for his starving beauty, but it would have to do. Next, he bought a small creature of burden, a sorrel mare of slight build, that would carry weight of his gypsy and the rest of his possessions.

With the mare following close behind him, he walked out of the city, eager to collect Esmeralda and begin their journey to Provins.

--

To block out memories of the goblin monk, the Bohemian began to sing. Her voice at first was nothing more than a whisper but it slowly grew louder. The words of her Spanish lullabies soothed and calmed her distraught mind. After several minutes of singing, she let out a deep sigh and fell on her back. The Egyptian looked up at the thatched roof that was glowing in the sunlight.

All of the sudden, the horrible feeling that had left her while she was singing came rushing back to her. It was nauseating and she could not shake for more than a few fleeting seconds. She longed for anything to occupy her time, anything that would take her mind away from the priest.

The gypsy girl rolled her head to the side and was surprised to see her prayer had been answered. A shiny beetle was making it's way across the floor, unaware of its observer. She slowly sat up and grabbed the cursed flower-crown of the priest's and carefully set it back down again on the ground surrounding the bug. She watched happily as the bug made its way to the wall; once it saw that it could not move forward, it changed directions. Moments later, it came across the same problem: a leafy barrier was preventing it from continuing along its path. The beetle began to climb the wall, but when it had almost reached the top, it fell back down to the ground.

"Poor beetle," crooned its captor, "you are trapped."

The Bohemian watched the bug try to crawl its way over the crown once more before she had to let it go. The poor girl could not contain a fellow living creature against its will; it was too cruel. As the beetle scurried away from her, she felt a sense of relief; at least one of them was free.

There was a soft crunching noise outside that caught the gypsy's attention. Whatever was making the noise was coming closer to her hut. A mixture of fear and hope flooded the gypsy. Perhaps it was the priest. Perhaps he had food. She feared his presence but also feared his prolonged absence.

When he had first left, she swore to herself that she would not hope for his return. Several hours later, the Egyptian was looking up at the thatched roof dreaming of the sweet treats he would bring her. When she was at the Cour des Miracles, the old women would tell her stories of the expensive food the rich would eat. At the time, it all seemed rather silly, but now she longed to be at one of the King's banquet tables.

The crunching was getting louder, and La Esmeralda was sure it would be at the hut at any moment. She stood up, there was no need to be laying on the ground. Just as she had predicted, the sound stopped right outside the hut. A quieter noise was made as something came even closer to her little shelter. The gypsy heard the lock click several times and waited for the priest's head to emerge.

The door slowly opened and the black fabric of his cloak was the first thing she saw. Once his head was visible, he looked almost surprised to see her standing there before him. He took a deep breath and rushed into the hut.The priest grabbed her so vigorously that the gypsy feared she would not be able to breath. He began to cheerfully kissing her face and stroke her hair. The Bohemian pushed him away and stepped back; being near him was worse than she remembered.

"In time, my love," he whispered. He walked back outside and the gypsy feared that he would leave her again, but he came back seconds later with food in his hands. At the sight of fare, her hatred was somewhat suppressed, and she moved forward. La Esmeralda grabbed the cheese out of the priest's hands and began to eat. In the past, she never had a liking for cheese, but now it was the most wonderful thing that she had ever tasted.

When she had finished eating, she felt sick. The gypsy wanted to lie on the cool stone ground and soothe her aching stomach but she did not dare. The priest moved closer to her and proffered a little jug that he held in his hand. The girl quickly shook her head, she felt too ill.

Forgetting the wicked man, she fell to the ground and rested on her stomach; to her dismay, the weight from her body only made it worse. She turned around on her back and waited for relief to come. Several minutes later, her stomach began to feel slightly better, and she let out a sigh of gratitude. With her mind not solely focused on her sick stomach, the gypsy girl became conscience of the priest standing next to her. As he knelt down, she kept her eyes closed, willing him to go away.

Light fingers began to dance across her stomach, and her dwindling pain was pushed from her mind. The priest continued to gently move his fingers over her body, and she could feel herself tense. Suddenly, he stopped. La Esmeralda felt sick again until she felt his cold fingers on her forehead. Any other time, his touch would have been unwelcome, but at the moment, it was a blessing. He brushed the hair away from her face and softly stroked her cheeks. The poor child dreamt that it was her Phoebus lovingly caressing her, and she was not being held captive by the horrible goblin monk. She reached her hand to touch the face of her beloved; when she made contact with his cheek, she heard him let out a contented sigh. The Egyptian opened her eyes to look at her love.

Her hand immediately fell; it was not Phoebus staring back at her, it was the priest. She was upset for a moment, but then she remembered the relief his cool fingertips brought her. As she looked into his passionate stare, she felt a small amount of appreciation. The priest had not let her starve; he had come back to her with food. And when she was sick, he hand comforted her.

"Let me go," she whispered.

"My love, if I were to let you go back to your beloved tramps, you would most certainly die," he replied in a fatherly tone. "Do you not understand? Every man, woman, and child in Paris knows your face and cries for your death. In their eyes, your miraculous escape from Notre Dame only confirms that you are a witch. I am your only protection."

"Phoebus would take care of me," the Bohemian pleaded.

"Would you go to him? Live with him as if you were his wife? The Holy Father would see that has adultery, which is an unforgivable sin; you would be caste into the fires of Hell," Her eyes darkened, the priest felt that he was gaining the upper hand. Her fear and lack of knowledge about what was said in the Holy Book would keep her following him.

"Do not be afraid. Through me you can find forgiveness in the Lord. All you must do is be my devoted wife and you shall see the Kingdom of Heaven," said the priest. "But if you do go astray, the Lord will be quick to punish. You will find yourself burning for all eternity with your fellow sinners."

It was obvious that the gypsy was terrified, the prospect of being in Hell frightened her immensely. La Esmeralda pondered the face looming before her. He was a priest, a man of God, surely he would not be lying about such matters. She knew little about the church, but she did believe in Christ and his Holy Mother. Unsure about what to do, the gypsy looked out the open door and was surprised to see a face looking back at her. She squinted her eyes. Was it possible that he had come? She became even more confused; if he did save her, would she go to Hell for abandoning the priest, her husband?

The man in the forest made a gesture for her to remain quiet and she turned her attention back to the priest. Luckily, he was too enwrapped in his words to notice her momentary lapse of attention. "There is a mare outside, waiting to carry you Provins, where we will live. Shall you come?"

When she did not immediately respond, the priest pulled her into a sitting position. "Come, my bride, or shall we delay a little while?" he asked as he toyed with her clothing.

The Bohemian stood up so fast that her vision went grey, and she feared that she would faint. The priest's hands stabilized her, and she felt somewhat better. When the light feeling left her, the Egyptian walked outside, eager to see her savior. He was not there.

Disappointed, she turned to the priest. He was standing close to her, ready to grab her if she should run. Without warning, the priest grasped her hand and led her to the horse. As La Esmeralda was placed on top of the horse, she became nervous. The beast was seemed tall, and it smelled bad. As the goblin monk led it forward, the gypsy girl felt severely unstable; she imagined falling to the ground and being stepped on by the creature. The Bohemian wrapped her delicate fingers into the horse's mane and desperately tried to steady herself.

They slowly made their way through the forest and hours later they emerged. The gypsy girl happily looked up at the sun. As its warm rays hit her skin, she felt slightly better about her situation. The priest was old, perhaps her would die soon, along with his wretched red horse. She had never been on a horse before, and she quickly learned that it was much worse than she initially thought. Once she had grown use to the methodical walking of the beast, two horrible things happened: it began to sweat, which just caused the horse to smell even more, and her body became numb. Soon, her numbness turned to an aching soreness. The gypsy girl longed to be walking, but the priest continually said no.

It was late in the evening when they finally came to a stop. Throughout their journey, Esmeralda would scan the surrounding area for the man in the forest but she did not see him. It greatly disappointed her, but at the end of the day, she was too tired to care. The ride had been long and boring and she was very sore. They stopped at an inn, and the gypsy girl wanted nothing else than to fall asleep.

The priest helped her off of the animal, and they walked into the inn together. The calm look that the house possessed on the outside was completely broken by the inhabitants on the inside; drunken men were either merrily leering at dirty women or starting fights amongst themselves. Esmeralda moved closer to the only thing that was familiar to her, which just happened to be the priest. He pushed his way threw the crowd with her following close behind. He talked to the barkeep, who sold them a room for the night.

The small room seemed like paradise to the Bohemian. The bed made of hay was a welcome change from the cold stone that the gypsy had been sleeping on. She plopped down on the bed and fell asleep within minutes.

The priest looked at his wife. The regular gentle rise and fall of her chest told him she was sleeping. The Archdeacon smiled, he had been worried when she was sick earlier that day. It reminded him of the time she was tortured, and he watched on, helpless to do anything. When Jehan was young and he felt sick, Frollo would soothe the child by gently rubbing his stomach, so it was only natural for him to do the same thing to the gypsy. He was pleased to see that the simple gesture had the same outcome on Esmeralda.

He sat down next to his beauty; she did not move away from his presence. He gave a happy sigh before wrapping his arms around her and falling asleep.

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I have a joke, but it's only for the reviewers. So, if you have not reviewed, kindly read no further (I'm just kidding; you can if you want to). Why does Snoop Dogg carry and umbrella?? Fo Drizzle. I just had to share that with someone; it's pure genius. Thanks to my bootilicous reviewers!


	10. Libérés

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There was movement below him. He felt the soft body, his source of warmth, roll away from him and turn on her side. The Archdeacon shivered in his newly acquired cold state. Half-conscious, he clawed at the body and pulled her back to him. He felt her stiffen, but he didn't care. He let out a contented sigh and began to stroke one of her soft arms.

The arm quickly jerked away from him. Claude Frollo opened his eyes to seek out his young wife. The angelic girl was beginning to sit up, careful not to meet his piercing gaze. He sat up next to her and kissed her rosy cheek. She turned her head from him, but he snaked his arm around her waist and held her still. "Don't worry, my dear," he whispered, "we shall leave…soon."

He began to gently kiss her neck as his free hand caressed her pretty leg. La Esmeralda tried to stand up, but his arm anchored her down. The priest's hand moved upwards and pushed her tattered garment up her legs and past her thighs. He heard a sharp intake of breath, but he did not stop; she had wifely duties to fulfill.

The panting man pushed the frightened girl back on the bed. He moved his arm underneath her robes and let his hand roam over her warm body. He looked at the gypsy's face; her vivacious eyes were hidden behind closed lids. Smiling, he leaned forward and kissed them.

He felt her stomach rise then fall, and her lips part as a soft protest escaped. "Please," she quietly begged, "not now." The priest looked down at his bride. Her hands were shaking, and tears were beginning to fall from her closed eyes. Her checks, her gorgeous, red checks, were glowing from embarrassment. She was but a child; for a moment, he was filled with shame.

He withdrew his hand from underneath her clothes and sat up. The gypsy, too frightened to move, remained motionless on the bed. The priest looked back at her; her eyes were open, but they were full of a questioning fear that she could not control. She looked so lovely as she stared up at him with sparkling, round eyes. At that moment, he wanted to take her, but his guilt prevented him.

Unable to meet her gaze, he quickly stood up and walked to the door. Even if she would not perform her wifely duties, he was still responsible for the gypsy as her husband. The poor girl had not eaten in a day. Today, he told himself, he would be careful to make sure that she did not eat herself sick. The previous day she had eaten the cheese too fast, and an aching stomach was the consequence of it. Although he wanted nothing more for his love to fell no hunger, he had to be careful. She had gone a long time without food; and if she was reintroduced to food too quickly, she would receive the same stomach pains.

He was able to buy a small bowl of porridge from the owner of the inn. Frollo was sure that he had received the worse end of the bargain, but he cared not. He could afford to buy pricey foods for his lovely wife. Someday, she would be treated like a queen. The beautiful gypsy girl would be his beautiful queen that he could dote upon. He would buy the finest fabrics to adorn her body during the day, and for him to take off during the night. He imagined the coy smile she would give him as he gently removed her gown fit for royalty. Someday, she would appreciate him.

With that image in mind, the priest made his way back to the gypsy. When he entered the room, he noticed that Esmeralda had moved from the bed. In fact, she was standing as far away from it as possible. The Bohemian gave him a startled look before noticing the bowl in his hands. Her questioning eyes traveled up to his face, silently begging for the warm food.

The priest proffered the bowl to her but gave her a simple warning. "Careful, my love," said he. "If you eat too quickly, you shall become sick." She simply nodded her head and grabbed the bowl. When she began to eat at a pace deemed too fast by Frollo, he cleared his throat and gave her a wary look. The girl gave a small nod and continued to slowly eat.

When she was done with the porridge, and there were no signs of any pains, Frollo decided that it was best for them to leave. He quickly gathered up his objects and ushered the young girl out the door. When they were outside, they waited a few minutes for their mare. The Bohemian greatly dreaded the sight of the beast. Her body was still sore and aching from yesterday. Images of Phoebus on his large horse came to mind. How was it possible for him to appear so comfortable, so natural? Surely, riding a horse was much harder than he made it look.

She glanced sideways at the priest and hate filled her. This morning, she was quite relieved that he stopped his unwanted touches. She had been paralyzed with fear when he raised her gown to her hips. The many times that he had found his way inside her before, she felt nothing but self-loathing and disgust. She hated herself because she could not stop him, and she was disgusted with her own body. The man made her feel weak.

The trauma from earlier that morning combined with the sight of the approaching horse made the gypsy let out a sad wail. "Please," she cried, "do not make me, do not make me!" Interpreting her sudden display of emotion as a dislike for the horse, Frollo felt compassion for the girl.

He gently touched her shoulder and said, "Peace, child. You may walk." Her sad eyes looked up at him; he wanted to kiss her tears away, but he did not. For the second time that morning, the priest's guilt restrained him. He turned to the inn's stable boy and traded the horse for a few coins.

For several hours, they made their way down a dry road. It was unusually hot, and the gypsy cursed her black outfit. She longed for her favorite azure dress that she once danced in. Even her white dress would have been better. The gypsy girl sadly reminisced about the happy times when she would freely move about Paris in her lovely dresses. Now, she was a caged bird, dressed in black.

When the sun was at its highest, the priest allowed them a short rest. He unloaded the sweating horse's burden and let it drink from a clear stream. La Esmeralda sat on a rock, pondering the clouds. They all looked the same to her. Sometimes, she would see objects in the fluffy, white clouds, but not today. Today, they all looked the identical. She let out a sad sigh.

The priest, contented that the mare was happy grazing, sat next to his precious wife. She was staring wistfully at the sky. He mimicked her and turned his gaze to the clouds. When he looked at the clouds, his thoughts were much different. He hoped that the tiny clouds were not predecessors to larger, darker, rain clouds. If it did rain, they would be delayed longer than he would have liked.

He looked back at his gypsy girl when something else caught his eye. For a moment he thought he was seeing things, but then he saw it again. A man was slowly moving toward them. When he came close enough to see that they had stopped, he quickly hid. Confused, Frollo furrowed his brow. How did he find them?

The Archdeacon pulled Esmeralda off the rock and out of her day dreams. Equally confused, the gypsy looked around. The priest seemed flustered. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the horse. For a horrifying moment, she thought that he would make her ride the thing; thankfully, he did not. He quickly saddled the horse and started out on the road again.

As the were walking, the Egyptian noticed that the priest was acting rather odd. Every so often, he would turn around and survey the road behind them. Curious about what he was looking at, Esmeralda started to look back the road. It looked exactly the same, dry and brown. No matter how far they walked, it all looked the same to her. The road was brown and the grass was green. Frustrated, she kicked a small rock. It rolled a few feet in front of her and quickly stopped.

At dusk, they arrived at a small town that the priest claimed was their stopping point. Weary, La Esmeralda followed him, looking for another inn. They walked through the town and past a small church, but they did not stop. They were approaching a forest and the gypsy feared they would be sleeping under the trees. The thought of bugs and spiders crawling over her skin while she slept was not very appeasing to the tired girl.

Several minutes into the forest, the gypsy saw a building. Her heart gave a leap of joy. She was hungry, and she would demand food from the priest. As they approached, she noticed it was not alive with activity like the inn from the previous night had been. There were no glowing windows or drunken customers staggering out front. In fact, the dark house looked deserted.

The priest led her to the house. Once she was inside, he closed the door behind her and went to attended to the wretched beast outside. The Bohemian moved about the house, lazily examining things. It was sparse and dirty with only two small rooms. The front room had one wooden chair placed close to the fireplace, and the back room was a bedroom. Like the hut, the roof was thatched and let in little streams of the fading sunlight. It was obvious that they had reached house the priest had promised. La Esmeralda's heart sank. This was her permanent cage.

Forgetting her hunger, she moved into the front room and laid down. The gypsy girl curled into a small ball and fell asleep.

The next morning, she awoke with a brown object in her face. She cautiously sat up to examine it; it was a bowl of water. Grateful, she splashed her hands in the water and brought the cool liquid to her dirty face. She then dipped her tired feet into the bowl; they instantly felt rejuvenated. Feeling clean and refreshed, Esmeralda noticed three things all at once. There was a brown dress on the chair accompanied by a loaf of bread, and Quasimodo standing in the doorway. She quickly moved toward her savior.

"I saw you in the forest. I knew you would not leave me!" She proclaimed. The bell ringer happily smiled at her warm reception.

"I followed the priest when he left Notre Dame. I continued to follow him and waited for a time when he was not around." The hunchback merrily explained to the equally happy gypsy. "I have brought you food and a new dress."

The gypsy felt an overwhelming amount of thanks for the blessed hunchback; he had come to save her. "Quiet," warned Quasimodo and pointed to the other room. "Frollo is asleep." Esmeralda nodded; she did not want to wake the priest. The bell ringer handed her the bread, and she silently began to slowly eat. She heeded the priest's warning from the other day and took small bites. The Bohemian offered the hunchback some of the bread, but he declined.

"Hurry," he whispered. "We must leave soon." The gypsy was ecstatic; she had given up hope of being rescued. Without finishing her meal, she quietly walked to the door, careful not to make a sound. Quasimodo was right behind her, carrying her dress and food. They left the building together; Esmeralda immediately felt liberated.

The two began to walk through the forest when the hunchback stopped. "I have left something," he muttered before turning back to the small house. Esmeralda gave a cry of protest, but he did not hear her. She watched as his twisted form entered the house. She waited several tense moments, but the hunchback to did not reappear. She hesitantly made her way back to the house and opened the door to peep inside.

"Lovely wife," came the cold voice of the priest. "I have found your rescuer." He was gripping Quasimodo by the hair as he held a shiny knife to his throat. A dark red spot on the hunchback's shoulder was growing larger and wetter. Blood dripped down his shirt and on to the ground. "If you leave," the priest continued, "I will send Quasimod to Hell, where he will await your arrival."

He pressed the metal blade deeper into the bell ringer's throat. Blood began to pour from the freshly made wound. Quasimodo struggled in his father's vice like grip. La Esmeralda felt for a fleeting second that she would leave the hunchback, but she remained still. His eyes were begging the girl to leave, but she could not abandon him. The sorrow on his face reminded her of the time she had brought him water. He had repaid her kindness by saving her several times.

"So, my love, shall I send Quasimodo to the fiery abyss?" cackled the goblin monk. He watched her reaction; the Egyptian looked too scared to move. Slowly, she took a deep breath and shook her head.

"No," she whispered. Frollo tensed as she moved closer toward him. "Please, do not kill him. Spare him, and I will be yours." She fell to the ground and kissed his feet. "Husband, have mercy!" She pleaded. Her gorgeous face looked up at him, and he felt his arm holding the knife move away from the hunchback's throat. The Bohemian was at his feet, promising to be his; yet, he felt no assurance. As he looked upon her, he saw the same frightened girl that was in Phoebus' bed, covered in blood. Her black eyes held the same terror as when he first kissed her lovely lips.

In one swift movement, Frollo removed the knife down and pushed Quasimodo away. He grabbed the gypsy by her hair and tossed her into the bedroom. She was no child. The gypsy had been willing to sleep with the Archers' Captain; she was no child. She was a sorceress. Her dances had bewitched his body to burn for her. He had been a saint, living for God. Now, he lived only for her.

The Archdeacon followed the gypsy into the room and slammed the door shut. If Quasimodo came in, Frollo would kill him. "Bohemian," he could see tears beginning to form in her eyes. "Will you be my wife? Will you live for my pleasure? Will you truly be mine?"

"Husband," the word was barely audible, "spare Quasimodo, and I will be your wife." Before she had finished her sentence, the priest was at her side. He quickly picked her up and set her down on the bed. Frollo felt no guilt as he removed her tattered gown; she swore to be his. He gazed upon her perfect, naked figure and relished in it. She squirmed uncomfortably. The priest smiled at her, "Do not worry, my love, soon you shall not be so modest."

--

The hunchback lay silently in the front room. When he had walked back into the house, Frollo was awake and, unbeknownst to Quasimodo, lurking in the bedroom. Quasimodo assumed that the priest was still sleeping, so he quietly went about his business. As he was leaving, Frollo grabbed him from behind. His father's strong hands spun him around; he was livid.

"Foolish child," the priest hissed, "did you think that I would not spot you following us? Your dancing girl is mine, and I will show you." With that said, the priest plunged the knife into Quasimodo's healing wound. Blood immediately began to seep through his dirty shirt. The hunchback didn't care, though. The girl was free; she had escaped Frollo.

The priest turned him around and brought the knife to his throat. The two waited for several minutes before La Esmeralda appeared in the doorway. Her sweet face instantly showed fear as she beheld the gruesome sight before her. Quasimodo hoped that she would run away, but she did not. To his dismay, she stepped into the house and said something. The bell ringer was not able to read her lips, but he could see the sadness on her face. As she approached the priest, the hunchback tried send messages for her to leave, but she did not. The Egyptian fell to her knees; Quasimodo could not see what she was doing. Moments later, he felt Frollo shove his twisted body away.

Quasimodo stumbled forward and lost his balance. He fell to the floor, and then there was nothing.

--

Thanks to gravity01, LilyHellsing, and Mrs. James Norrington. If you feel inclined to give me a little shout out about anything, please, press the review button.


	11. Ces diamants là

You know that magical feeling you get when you find a forgotten twenty in some forgotten pair of pants? Well, I don't. So make me feel better and review. As always, Yami, Lille, Lily and grav ROCK!! Also, don't get caught up in the massive historical inaccuracies. I try to keep it as real as possible; but let's all remember, it's freaking fanfiction.

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The girl raised her hand and let it fall. Amused, she did it again. Letting her arm fall through the crisp morning air created a most interesting feeling. The third time, she raised both of her thin arms and examined her hands. They were dirty -- filthy to be exact.

A moan came from the ground. The girl's gaze strayed away from her hands to the creature lying on the floor. The puppy her father had given her was whimpering in his sleep. His little paws scraped the earthen ground as he dreamt about running. This greatly entertained the little child.

She quietly crept up to the sleeping pup and began to rub his stomach. The dog immediately jumped to life lunged for the end of her dress. When the hem was locked firmly in between his jaws, he began to pull away. The girl giggled in delight.

"Quiterie, stop that," a feminine voice said. "The dog will ruin your dress; then where will we be? I shall have to make you a new one."

"Mama, I want blue ribbons this time," the little girl replied.

Smirking, the mother retorted, "If I have to make you another dress, it will be all brown with no ribbons; not even for your hair."

The child's eyes grew large at the threat. She quickly calmed her playful dog and scooped him up in her arms. "Marlon only wants to play, Mama," she explained.

"As long as it doesn't involve your dress, I don't care what that dog does," the mother quietly waved away the child and walked off, but Quiterie was not satisfied. The soft patting the girl's feet made as she followed made the mother smile.

"Come here, daughter," the woman said as she turned around to face the young girl. "Set down your dog and eat your breakfast."

The child gently put the dog on the ground and smiled. Her mother had made a fresh loaf of bread, she could tell. The smell of baking bread had permeated throughout the entire house all morning and made Quiterie hungry.

The slice that her mother handed her was nice and warm. She quickly ate the bread; it was heavenly. Her mother made the best bread in the whole village; Quiterie was certain.

"When I am older will you teach me to cook?" the girl asked. Her mother laughed.

"Of course, how else will you feed your daughter?"

"But we will all live together. Me, you, and Papa will all love together. And when I have a daughter, I will teach her to cook!"

"What about your husband? Will he live with us, too?"

"I won't have a husband!"

"Ah, my child, only when you are married will God give you a daughter. It will be his gift to you," the mother calmly explained.

The child grew silent as she contemplated. "Don't worry, my love. Someday, you will want to move away from your papa and mama. Someday, you'll want your house to be filled with children and not your old parents," the mother said.

"Never!" the child cried as she ran to her mother's arms. The idea of leaving her papa and mama was an unimaginable fate.

There was a soft knock on the door, and the mother picked up the child. Quiterie gave her mama a hug, she smelled like bread. "Okay, love, we have a visitor; time for you to be quiet," the mother whispered. The young girl clung to her mother and nodded.

The pair made their way over to the door, and the black puppy followed. His shaky saunter made the young girl smile. The mother reached the door and opened it. On the opposite side was a boy that the mother had noticed around the village. He wasn't a native to Provins; if he had been born in the village, she would have delivered him.

Nevertheless, the boy stood quaking outside her doorstep, almost too nervous to speak. "Yes?" the woman asked testily.

"Well, uh, Madam," he paused, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "A woman, the woman from the forest, bade I come get you. She paid me money, she did. She says someone's sick."

"Silly boy, you make no sense. What are you babbling about?"

"A woman came from out of the forest, she lives in a house there, and told me to get a midwife. Says someone is sick."

Quiterie watched as her mother regarded the boy. She had the stern look on her face that Quiterie always feared; good things would not come if Mama had that look on her face. Finally her mother took a breath and said irritably, "Fine then, lead on, noble messenger." With Quiterie still in her arms, she grabbed her small bag of herbs with her free hand and followed the boy.

It was a rather warm morning, but it was pleasant enough. Their journey across town and into the forest was quick and silent, at least it was silent save for the small chatter of Quiterie. Going out with her mama was a rare treat. Usually only a few women would go with her mother, and Quiterie was not allowed to go; so when her mother brought her, it was very special.

"Mama, are you going to fix the sick person?" Quiterie asked.

"Child, you talk too much; you are just like your father. He could talk to a stone for hours. It's true; I have seen it happen," the mother said.

Quiterie doubted this. If she was talkative, it most certainly was not from her father. All the miserable times Quiterie and her papa had been forced to silently listen to her mother talk with the other women was too numerous to count, at least for Quiterie.

As they reached the edge of the forest, Quiterie became very excited. "Mama, someday I want to be just like you," she said proudly.

"Ah, my little angel, you will be better than your mama," the mother smiled. She had a great deal of faith that her little child would become a good midwife.

Through the trees, the mother could make out a house. Upon closer inspection, she realized that it was rather dilapidated house. This did not bother her, most of the houses in Provins were in need of repair. There was a young woman standing anxiously outside the door. When she heard the small company approaching, she looked somewhat startled.

"What is wrong?" said the midwife.

"My brother, he is inside the house, was walking, and he was attacked by robbers. They stabbed him. The bleeding has stopped, but the wound looks angry," the young woman said in a small voice.

"And you live here?"

"Yes," the woman whispered.

"How come I have never seen you before?" the midwife's interrogation continued.

"Please, madam, I have money; I can pay you. Just tell me what to do!" the woman pleaded.

"You know, this house is owned by a very respectable family. I believe it has been in their possession for many years." The midwife lied. In all honesty, she did not know who owned the house, but she doubted it was this gypsy vagabond standing in front of her.

"It is my husband's house. He brought us here. Please, help my brother!" the woman pleaded again. Of course, the older woman thought, her vagabond husband had brought them here to pollute our town, and now one of them is sick.

Quiterie's mother paused, and she examed the other woman, the tramp. She was thin and wore a tattered brown dress. She assumed that she must have once been very beautiful, but now her face was gaunt and lined with worry. The more she looked at the younger woman, the more the midwife felt her prejudices melting away. "Okay," she sighed, "take me to your brother."

"No."

"Beg your pardon?"

"No, I'm sorry but…he does not like strangers. Please, do you have anything that I might apply to his wound to make it better. I will pay you for it."

"Don't be foolish; let me see your brother," she was getting irritated, and the girl was starting to cry.

Quiterie watched the exchange from her post in her mother's arms. She liked the other woman; she had a soft voice. The child became distraught when she saw the woman start to cry. She remembered when one of Mama's friends had lost her son and she cried; it made Quiterie feel sad, too. Quietly, she whispered into her mother's ear, and she was set down.

The child walked over to the weeping woman and tugged on her dress. The lady looked down, surprised to see Quiterie standing there.

The last thing La Esmeralda expected to see was an innocent child staring up at her. The child's white hair and creamy skin along with the adoring look that she gave the gypsy reminded the Bohemian of her precious goat. At the memory of the sweet animal, a faint smile came to the crying girl's face.

"Don't cry," the child said. "Mama will fix your brother." With that promise said, the child held her tiny hand up to the gypsy, waiting to be walked to the house. Hesitantly, the Bohemian held the child's hand and walked to the house.

The Egyptian had not planned on bringing the midwife inside the house. Quasimodo's appearance still scared her, and she had been exposed to his presence for several days now. She stopped at the door with the child's hand still clutched in her own; Esmeralda knew that the child should not be allowed to see the deformed man.

"Madam," Esmeralda said to the midwife, "he is inside. Please, do not be shocked. He is in desperate need of help. My husband went to get medical supplies, but I fear that he will not return in time."

The older woman gave her a stern look, but the gypsy had a feeling she could trust her. With a small huff, the midwife entered the house. Esmeralda held her breath, but there was no reaction. After several antagonizing minutes, the midwife remerged from the house.

"Blessed Mary," the midwife exclaimed. "And he is your brother?"

"Yes," Esmeralda said meekly.

"We are all made in His image. Well, child, I have done the best I can. His pain will subside, and he will hopefully recover; it is out of our hands. Pray to the Holy Father that he will live. If it starts to smell worse, it is a bad sign." The Egyptian nodded. "Give him this herb when he starts to feel pain, it should help." The midwife placed a small amount of green in the gypsy's free hand and nodded. She looked at her daughter and smiled.

"Come along, Quiterie; we must return home before your dog becomes bored and sets on the neighbors," this caused the child to giggle.

"Pick me up, Mama!" the child happily squealed.

"Child, I walked you here; you can walk back. Do not worry about paying; I shall be back later, perhaps." The midwife said. With that, the mother and daughter left Esmeralda.

She watched their retreating forms and felt slightly encouraged. It was the first human interaction she had had with someone besides the priest in what felt like ages. And the woman had not rebuked her or Quasimodo. The gypsy walked back into the house.

Quasimodo was laying with his face to the wall. He was asleep, as he had been for quite some time. She sat down next to him and touched his shoulder, and he relaxed under her touch. Esmeralda envied him. She wished she could relax, but she lived in never ending fear. She wanted to run away from the wretched priest but feared that she would have nowhere to go. Also, she could not leave her savior to die. Over the past few days, the priest had tried his beast to save the hunchback, and he swore that Quasimodo would not die.

Now, she feared the priest's return. He had become more cruel than ever. He rarely spoke to her, unless it was to tell Esmeralda her next duty as his wife. He would leave in the morning to get food and return shortly thereafter. But he stayed in the bedroom, all by himself, unless, of course, he required the company of the gypsy. For the most part, the kind side that he once possessed was gone. He was cold and distant.

Esmeralda longed for a companion, but neither of the two males in the household proved to be very friendly. It was a trivial matter, though. She was alive and had food. Sadly, she sighed.

"Dear wife," said a cold voice from the doorway, "do not be sad; I have a gift for you." It was the priest. He stood towering in the doorway, daring Esmeralda to react. She simply smiled. "And how is your precious bell ringer?"

"He…the midwife gave me some herbs to help him with the pain," she said as brazenly as she could.

"My love, she did not see him, did she?" he said dangerously. The gypsy merely shook her head. "Good, now come here." The girl quickly got to her feet and walked to the priest but stopped several feet away. She still despised his presence. Without a second thought, he closed the remaining distance between the two and wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her outside of their quaint house.

Esmeralda could hardly believe her eyes. Tied up to the tree was a kid, baying for its mother. Unlike her previous goat, the baby goat standing before her was black with tiny white stumps protruding from its forehead. "Perhaps you can train this one to spell out 'Quasimodo'," mocked the priest.

The gypsy was not listening. She broke free from his grasped and walked toward the kid. It was a gentle thing that quietly took her in. His large brown eyes were sweet and trusting. He bayed at her, and she smiled. He was perfect.

She felt a hand on her back as the priest leaned down to exam the goat. "Careful, husband," she said quietly. "If you fell, you might not be able to get up." She instantly regretted it. Gently, he pushed her to the ground, and he stretched out next to her. His fingers delicately played with the fabric of her dress.

"Is my present acceptable?" he asked playfully. Esmeralda felt somewhat relieved. His mood was better than what it had been in the previous days.

"It is not my Djali," she stated.

"It is a good thing, then, that it is not my only present." Promptly, he stood up and helped her up. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the house. Once they were inside, he picked up a bundle that he must have dropped on the ground. The priest handed it to her, and she unfurled it. It was a blue dress. But it was like nothing she had ever worn before. The fabric was so soft. "Put it on," the priest ordered pointing to the other room.

She hurried into the bedroom and changed clothes. With the dress on, Esmeralda felt uplifted. It was a small mercy that provided her comfort. To signal his impatience, the priest cleared his throat. The gypsy stepped out into the other room and waited. When she did look at her horrid husband, the look on his face frightened her.


	12. Mon Maître, Mon Sauveur

Thanks to Madame Frollo, Yami no eyes, geckogirl, friendorphantom, Lillebule, gravity01, and (last but never least) LilyHellsing!

--

"Do you remember your cell?" Frollo asked. Esmeralda frowned but did not answer. "My love, remember the cold cell that you were locked in?"

"Tis a horrible memory," Esmeralda admitted.

"You preferred it to me. If I were to take you back to your cold cell, would you be content?"

"You saved Quasimodo; I am indebted to you," she replied as her eyes began to sparkle with tears.

"Does that mean you shall not leave me when your savior returns to health?" he asked dangerously.

"Yes," she whispered. She felt broken. She hated the priest, hated his cold eyes and cold demeanor; she hated his professions of love that were laced with venom.

She was sitting on the dirt ground next to Quasimodo, who showed signs of waking. Esmeralda's gaze strayed away from the deformed face to the blood-soaked shirt. The fabric was turning dark maroon and almost green in some areas. The wound, thank God, was covered by a small bandage that the priest had fashioned out of old clothe.

Since she had rejoined Quasimodo, her fears had begun to slowly ebb away as all her thoughts were concentrated on the sick man beside her. He fluttered his eyes and rolled over. Esmeralda took this as a good omen.

The Archdeacon stood behind her, glowering over his prize. Like he had promised back in the damp cell, he had brought her to a place of abundant trees and clear sky. But if it hadn't of been for the hunchback's careless mistake, the gypsy would have left him. The little sorceress would have met her fate back in Paris, though, the priest thought bitterly.

Frollo looked at the sorry man lying before him. Quasimodo was pathetic. The priest wanted to drag him far away from his gypsy, but the bell ringer was what anchored the gypsy to him. As long as he held Quasimodo in his grasp, La Esmeralda would not leave him. In fact, she would do whatever he asked. Frollo smirked at the thought.

Quietly, he sat down behind the gypsy and pulled her close so that her back was resting on his chest. "My love, let us step outside, away from this disease," Frollo whispered in her ear, and he felt the Bohemian cringe. "Come," he whispered as he stroked her soft face.

The Egyptian quickly stood up and averted his gaze. She hesitantly looked at her patient but did not say anything. Once he was standing, he pulled her outside into the early afternoon air. The golden sunlight that seeped through the roof of the forest created pools of light on the otherwise dark ground. Frollo leisurely moved through the trees, careful to avoid the various hazards of the forest.

As they walked, Esmeralda began to notice a change in the trees. Up ahead, it appeared, there was a clearing. Creamy white clouds were slowly moving across the soft blue sky. The closer she got to the clearing, the warmer she felt. When they reached it, the warm sunlight kissed her skin and brought back a familiar feeling of freedom. She longed for her tambourine. If she were free, she would be singing in the streets, unaware of the evils present in the world, Esmeralda thought resentfully.

The priest stopped; Esmeralda looked at what caused his immediate halt. There was a small pond before them. Bright green leaves that had been blown off the trees prematurely were gliding across the surface of the water, leaving tiny ripples in their wake. A gentle wind danced through the surrounding trees, creating a calming noise.

He led her to the bank and told her to clean up. The gypsy knelt down by the edge. She peeked over and saw her reflection for the first time in weeks. Her once flowing black hair was matted and unkempt. Her face looked like it had a permanent layer of dirt residing on it. But what changed the most were her eyes. She never thought she had happy eyes, but in contrast to the dull, black eyes before her now, they were the most gleeful eyes she had ever seen, apart from the priest's sometimes.

La Esmeralda carefully scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on her left arm. She watched as the dirt trickled away in streams. Once again, she dipped her hands into the pond and brought the cool water to her right arm. When both of her arms were clean, she removed her shoes and put her feet in the water and began to scrub away the dirt.

"Be careful not to get your dress wet, dear wife. It looks so lovely on you," a cold voice said behind her. Esmeralda looked back at the priest, who was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. She quickly made a disgusted noise and returned her attention to her dirty feet.

Minutes later, Esmeralda's was so absorbed with cleaning herself that she violently jerked forward when she felt her hair being pulled. The sudden motion caused the priest's fingers to get tangled in her hair and pulled him forward, too. Before she could steady herself, the Egyptian felt the cold water encompass her as she fell in, followed closely by the priest. As soon as she had her wits about her, she quickly crawled toward shore, her half-soaked dress weighing her down.

When she reached the safety of the bank, she looked back into the pond, where the priest was standing with a confused look. Seeing his vulnerability, Esmeralda was filled with a sudden rage and flew toward to priest. She ran as fast as her wet gown would allow, and with all the energy she could muster, she hit him. He went splashing into the water along with her. He quickly sat up as she began to beat on his chest.

Her blows became so violent that the priest felt a twinge of fear. He grabbed her arms and held them to her sides.

"Monster, assassin!" she cried. "Goblin monk, leave me be! Please, leave me be," she sobbed.

"Why do you torture me?" she whimpered softly. The priest, his usual collected self gone, looked bewildered at the crying gypsy. He was sitting in shallow water with a crying woman on his lap; it was a new situation for him.

Gently, he brushed her wet hair away from her face. "Esmeralda," he whispered, "my love for you is greater than any love that ever existed."

"Devil," she cried and tore her face away from his grasp, "you do not love."

"If only you could understand..." he trailed off noticing her reaction.

"No," she wailed. She began to quietly convulse. Uncertain of what to do, he wrapped his arms around her. Out of instinct, she jerked away from him, but his strong arms held her in place, and she became still.

When she stopped, the priest cautiously stood up, and because of her position, Esmeralda stood up, too. Frollo noticed her long hair was tangled in an angry looking knot. The priest quickly grabbed her hair and worked on the mess. She gave a muffled cry, but he did not stop.

"Your lovely hair is tangled," Frollo said indifferently.

"And your hair is missing," she spat. Crossly, he dropped her hair and walked to the bank and waited for her to join him. Esmeralda looked tragically at the water surrounding her before walking to her master, for that was what she felt he had become.

"Come along, Esmeralda, you need a new dress," the priest said irritably. She stopped mid-stride.

"My goat is an ugly thing," she said.

"What?" the priest asked.

"What to name an animal so foul?" she pondered aloud.

Frollo looked questioningly at the girl. "Perhaps _Mercredi, _after the day you got him," he offered in a snide tone.

Esmeralda gave the priest a questioningly look that rivaled his own and said, "What is your name?"

Before his intelligent mind could stop him, he answered, "Claude."

"Ah ha!" she cried triumphantly. "I shall name him Claude!" With that, she hopped out of the pond and smiled at the priest.

"Such a fitting name," she exclaimed happily. "Do you not agree?"

"Foolish child, name the animal whatever you wish," he said before grabbing her wrist and jerking her closer to him. "Just remember that along with the goat, you are mine."

Esmeralda's fleeting jubilant mood was gone. The priest, Claude, had returned to his controlled, cold self. Still, for awhile she had outwitted him. The thought once again made her feel victorious. She gave him a coy smile and said, "I am yours? Perhaps not. Perhaps I am the one that controls you."

Claude looked crossly at her. "Is that so, my dear wife?"

Not so brazenly, she whispered, "Yes."

"Then what shall you do with your newly attained power?" He was moving closer to her, and she shifted uncomfortably.

"I…I must…Quasimodo."

"No, no, you were showing your power over me," Frollo hissed. He was infuriated. When she so courageously spoke out, she had no idea how much truth there was behind her words. He had given up his life, his title, just to be with her, to be able to kiss her, to love her. He wanted to disprove her dangerous words not only to her, but to himself. He was unwilling to dwell on the thought of her holding so much power.

"Come over here, my queen, I am your's to command," he gave her a malevolent smile.

When she faltered, his expression showed his satisfaction. "Ah, it was as I thought. Shall I show you my power over you?" Noticing that she was breathing faster, he raised his hand and began to lazily trace her collarbone with his finger. When she stiffened, he wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her even closer.

"You will do anything for me," he whispered in her ear. Excitement spread through him as he felt her so close. She began to push against him as she tried to get out of his arms, but he slid his other hand through her hair and held her firmly in place. Even quieter than before, he said, "Will you sing for me?"

Violently, he pushed the gypsy away from him and appraised her. She was glaring at him with a fury that had never been present on her pretty face before.

"Old man," she said, "I shall never sing again!"

"Never?"

"I have no reason to sing, there is nothing worth singing for anymore." Her new attitude was beginning to frustrate the priest. He much preferred her obedient.

"If you will not sing, how else shall we pass the time?" he said hoping that she would pick up on his implication.

Esmeralda's head sagged, there was no use fighting. She began to mouth the words of the song, but when she saw the vexed expression on the priest's face, she began to sing louder. Soon, her nervous voice was carrying through the trees as she sang her Spanish song.

The words soothed her, as they had in the past. Sometimes she wished to know their meaning, but because she didn't, they held a certain mystery to them; she enjoyed the mystery.

"Stop," the priest said, "enough with your heathen words."

Esmeralda was confused; did he not ask her to sing?

"Wife," said he, "your dress is dirty. Shall I buy you a new one?"

She looked at her dress; dry mud stuck to the fabric making it uncomfortable to move in, and if she said yes, the priest might leave her for awhile.

"Yes," Esmeralda said.

"Perhaps you should come with me. Would you like to see the town?"

"No."

"What is the point of having a lovely with if I cannot show her off?" mused the priest.

The thought of being around even more people made La Esmeralda sick. The Parisians weren't particularly kind to her, and she remembered the look the midwife had given her earlier that morning.

"Come along," he said.

She followed close behind him; frequently, he would turn around and look at her. Once they reached the border of the forest, Esmeralda could see the small village. Unlike Paris, there were no large homes or grand buildings. The only ornate building in sight was the small chapel. As they passed, Esmeralda looked at the intricately carved wooden doors; they reminded her of Notre Dame.

They walked through the town. Everyone was silently going about their business, hoping to complete their tasks before the sun went down. Frollo approached a house that seemed slightly larger than the rest. He knocked on the door and waited for an answer.

Minutes later, the door was opened by a large woman in a black dress. "_Bonjour_," she said.

"Madame," the priest said in his cold voice, "my wife is in need of a dress. Do you have any finished ones?"

"Blessed Saints," she cried noticing Esmeralda's dress, "that is the dress that I spent weeks on. Silly girl, you must be reprimanded. Good sir, I hope that she will pay dearly for this atrocity."

The priest fixed his gaze on Esmeralda and smiled, "Do not worry."

"Good. Well, girl, come in, and I shall find you a dress." The woman went about the house, shouting things as she looked for a dress.

"Here," she exclaimed, "this dress is of no use to me, but it will cost more."

The priest examined the purple dress. "It will do," he said.

Esmeralda watched as the two exchanged; the woman received money, and the priest got the dress. He handed it to the Egyptian, and both looked at her expectantly. "Hurry along, I don't have all day," the woman huffed; the priest smirked.

Esmeralda looked bewildered at her new dress. "Shall I help you?" the woman rudely asked.

"No," the gypsy quickly said. She slipped out of her ruined dress and put on the purple one. It did not fit as well as the other, but she was grateful for it.

Smiling, the priest said, "Thank you, Madame," before ushering Esmeralda outside.

"Are you pleased with your dress?" Claude asked once they were outside.

"I would rather it be my blue one," she replied whimsically.

"Let us return; perhaps your bell ringer is awake and frantically looking for you," said he.

As they were walking back to their little house, Esmeralda saw people in the distance. Three figures, one small, two big, were standing in front of the church partaking in what looked like a pleasant conversation. As they got closer, Esmeralda recognized the little girl and the midwife, her mother; the third she did not recognize.

The child, bored with the adult conversation, happily beheld the approaching form of Esmeralda. "Mama!" she exclaimed. "It is the woman from the forest."

The midwife, somewhat shocked by the child's outburst, quickly snapped her head to Esmeralda's direction. "Ah," she said. "It _is _the woman from the forest. How is your brother?"

Nervously, Esmeralda looked at the priest; he seemed amused.

"He…he has not woken up yet," she stammered.

The midwife looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, "Have you given him the herbs I told you to?"

"Yes," Esmeralda whispered. She looked at the little child, hoping it would save her. To Esmeralda's disdain, the child was drawing in the sand.

"Excuse me," an unknown voice cut in. "Your brother is sick?"

"Yes, he was attacked by robbers and stabbed. The poor boy should survive, it was a clean wound" the midwife said as she looked at the intruder. It was a young man with pleasant features. His light brown hair gently danced in the wind. He had kind, blue eyes and wide smile.

"Praise God," he said. Esmeralda regarded the new man. He was a priest, she could tell from his attire. Apprehensively, she looked at Claude, who once wore the same garb.

The younger priest began to speak again, "Last summer, my brother died. He fell of a horse and broke his leg."

"Yes, I remember," the midwife said solemnly. "He was such a kind boy."

"Excuse me, sir," the young priest said, "have I seen you before?"

Esmeralda watched the older man hesitate before replying, "I have visited this town before. The house in which my wife, her _brother_, and I are staying has been in my family for generations. It is a small place, but we _enjoy_ it. Do we not, dear wife?" Esmeralda barely nodded her head.

"So, shall you be staying here?" the midwife asked.

"Perhaps," answered Claude.

"Welcome, sir. We would gladly accept you and your lovely wife into our little community," the younger priest said glancing at Esmeralda.

"Thank you," Claude said tersely.

"My name is Bellamy," the young priest said to an unimpressed Frollo. Smiling wider, he said, "And this is Geneva and Quiterie, her daughter."

Frollo nodded to the midwife, who merely nodded back.

"And you are?" Bellamy asked.

"Claude," he said abruptly. "We must be leaving; my wife's _brother_ is in need our assistance."

"Shall I come along?" Geneva asked.

"Thank you, no."

"In that case," Bellamy said, "shall we see you at evening vespers?"

"Perhaps," Frollo said as he began to walk away with Esmeralda. She looked back at the small group, they had returned to their conversation, but Bellamy was not looking at Geneva. Before Esmeralda turned her head away, she saw Bellamy's sly smile intended for her.


	13. À boire!

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Well, we have the ever talented LilyHellsing, the amazing gravity01, the super cool (?) SSLE, the severely awesome sepler, the intelligent Yami no Eyes, the fantastic Lillbule, the tremendous Ripper de la Blackstaff, the splendid Sarah, the grand Jareth's Genevieve, and...too lazy to sign in. Thank you so much!

--

As typical for that time of day, blackness had conquered the sky and a small amount of moonlight cascaded through the trees and leaked through the thatched roof. Although it was late, not all occupants of the little house in the forest were asleep.

Claude Frollo sat in the dark, intently watching Quasimodo. He could see the faint outline of the hunchback and hear his ragged breathing. Frollo leaned forward and touched Quasimodo's forehead. His skin was cooler than it had been earlier that day. The boy was getting better.

The older man sat back in his chair again with his arms resting neatly in his lap. Frollo sighed. If Quasimodo woke, no doubt his lovely bride would have hopes of escape filling her pretty head. He would not allow it! She was his.

Furiously, he stood up. He would _never_ allow it.

He walked to the doorway of the other room. La Esmeralda lay on her side with arms curled up by her chest. Frollo sighed again. She was his blessing and his curse. His very core ached for her, but he could feel the Holy Virgin weep at his thoughts. He stood there lost in thought for a while until he heard a noise.

The priest turned his attention back to the hunchback. In the darkness, he saw Quasimodo shift violently.

Frollo guardedly walked over to him. When he was within a few strides of the bell ringer, he realized that the younger man was awake.

In one sudden movement, the hunchback panted and attempted to sit up. There was a low moan as Quasimodo tried to speak. Frollo rushed forward and clasped his hand over the youth's mouth; he did not want to awake the sleeping Esmeralda.

As Frollo had predicted, a small panic ensued, but it was short lasted. Quasimodo was not strong enough to fight for an extended amount of time, and the wound on his arm left him slightly impaired until he had recovered more.

Endeavoring to calm the hunchback by any means possible, Frollo began to stroke his wet hair. The hunchback tensed and then relaxed. When Quasimodo's breathing became regular, Frollo removed his hand from the hunchback's mouth.

"Where is she?" asked the fatigued Quasimodo.

The priest narrowed his eyes. He would not show the gypsy to him. She belonged to him.

Jealousy enveloped the older man, and he slowly rose and walked away from Quasimodo. For a moment, he was tempted to leave the sick youth alone to join his wife in the other room, but Quasimodo let out a sad wail.

"Where is she?" the pathetic hunchback cried. There was a scuffling sound behind Frollo.

He turned around and faced the boy. Frollo barely saw the hunchback's outline as he tried to stand, but his weak body would not let him. A small amount of sympathy that had been dormant for several months arose in Dom Claude Frollo. He retrieved a cup and filled it with water.

In his delirious state, Quasimodo saw a dark figure move toward him. He tried to move away, but strong hands caught his shirt. Before he could protest, a wooden object was forced in between his lips. Quasimodo struggled, but the priest grabbed his hair and tipped his head back.

Cool water poured into the hunchback's mouth and down his parched throat. Thankfully, he drank from the blessed cup until there was no more.

When the priest removed the cup, Quasimodo wearily sank down to the ground. His mind was screaming for him to find the dancing girl, but his tired body refused to move. He gave way to his body and closed his eyes. Within moments, his rhythmic breathing filled the small room.

Frollo heard Quasimodo settle down; he was relieved. It would have been hard to explain anything to the deaf man in the dark. But the boy would wake by morning. The thought was not a blessing to Frollo.

He moved away from the boy and headed to the front of the room and opened the door. He stood at the doorway, gazing out at the dark forest for several long moments. He mulled over the nights events in his mind. He had to find a solution to the boy.

--

A loud noise woke the gypsy. To her surprise, she was alone in the tiny room. She stood and made her way into the front room of the house.

Quasimodo was awake and sitting upright; the priest was holding a cup out to him. When she entered the room, the hunchback froze and gave her a wild look. She made a step forward but halted when the bell ringer tried to stand. He murmured something, a name. It sounded like he murmured her name, but it was hard to distinguish.

"He is better?" she asked the priest quietly.

"Yes, it appears your hunchback has escaped death," he replied as he set down the cup of water. She moved forward to grab it, but Claude held up a hand. "No, do not reach for the cup. Your closeness will bother him. Come here."

Obediently she walked over to her husband and stood before him. The priest made a motion with his hand and she sat down in between him and Quasimodo. A hand brushed hair away from her face; La Esmeralda felt the priest lean closer to her.

"Now, my love," he said, "Quasimodo is well. He, no doubt, still has the fierce desire to rescue you. Will you allow it? Remember, I still have the means to end his miserable life."

Esmeralda vehemently shook her head, eyes wide with terror. "Good," he continued. "Perhaps you should persuade the hunchback that he is wrong in his theories."

She turned around to face him. "What do you say, cruel man?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Persuade not only him, but me that you do not want to abandon me."

"What do you want? You have everything. Have I not sworn to be yours?" With that, Frollo fell to his knees and held Esmeralda.

"My dear," he whispered. "How trustworthy is a gypsy girl's word? No, you are a woman, a deceitful creature of sin."

"But you have saved Quasimodo."

"Quasimodo, your savior!" he hissed.

"Beast, you are a wretched man. I would gladly welcome Death as my companion as long as he saves me from you."

"Until Death takes you away, you are mine, for the sake of your dear Quasimodo."

"And if he should die?"

"In the eyes of the Lord, you are still mine. No man can take you away from me. And if you leave, Hell shall await you."

The Bohemian did not respond immediately. The priest said so many things that she was unable to verify. She was unwilling to accept she was bound to this man for the rest of her life. He was evil.

"Hell is more desirable than being in your presence," she managed to choke out.

"Ah, perhaps we are already in Hell, tormenting each other," he spoke quietly into her ear.

She turned away from him and looked at Quasimodo. His eyes languidly moved from the gypsy to his master. But beneath his sickly appearance, anger festered inside the deformed man. He wanted to seize the priest and throttle him until there was no life left.

Quasimodo silently watched the pair until he saw something ominous glint in his master's eyes that prompted him to act. It was madness and jealousy; Quasimodo feared for the dancing girl. The hunchback painfully propped himself up; two pairs of eyes followed his labored movements with interest. A rush of unforeseen energy filled the hunchback; lunged forward, pass the girl, straight to his master. He wrapped his fingers around the priest's neck, squeezing as hard as he could.

The Egyptian watched the frightful scene unfold. The priest scratched at the bell ringer's hands, desperate to escape his deadly grip, but Quasimodo seemed unrelenting. Several long moments later, Esmeralda noticed the priest claw his clothing; she knew what he was trying to attain from the dark clothe. She rushed forward to stop him from reaching his dagger, but Quasimodo's massive form prevented her from reaching him in time. She saw a flash of silver.

Before she could see the murderous act, she fled from the house, from the hell the priest had created. She ran blindly through the forest; her thoughts far away.

Perhaps it was an eternity, or perhaps it was a second, she did not know how long she had been running. Unfortunately for Esmeralda, her flight was suddenly cut short. Her eyes blinded by her tears never saw the object cross her path, and she was knocked to the ground.

"Mama?" she heard a soft, childish voice whispered.

"Child, be quiet. Where is my bag?" It was quite obvious that the midwife was angry. A moan escaped Esmeralda before she desperately pushed herself up and quickly jolted away from the mother and child.

"No, wait!" Esmeralda heard the midwife's plea, but she did not stop.

There was a tug on her shoulder, and the gypsy was forcibly stopped. The midwife spun her around. "Zounds, child! Are you alright?"

"No!" Esmeralda could not contain her grief. "Let me go. The monster will get me. Hell is after me."

"What do you speak of? Monster, hell? It is Geneva. I have brought herbs for your brother."

"Madame, let me go," Esmeralda beseeched the midwife. "He is dead! He is dead! He has killed him."

"Who has killed whom? Take me to him."

"No, I can't; he is there. The murderer, the assassin, _he_ has killed my dear Quasimodo!"

Geneva looked skeptically at the Bohemian. She assumed she was talking about her deformed brother. "Do not worry. Your brother is not dead. He is probably waiting for you to return. It was probably a dream. Come with me, and you will see."

She gently tugged on her arm, but the gypsy did not move. "Save me! Please, save me. I cannot go back."

The two women stood silent. Each contemplated what to say next. Finally, the midwife spoke up.

"Come to my house, then. I will give you something that will calm you down and make you sleep. Things will be better when you can think logically. Come."

Esmeralda let out a deep wail. She wanted to flee from the priest but could not find the energy to do so. She knew that Quasimodo was dead; the image of her rescuer's discarded body on the ground haunted her.

There was no conversation as they walked into the village. Even little Quiterie remained silent. Esmeralda saw the homes and little shops, but they meant nothing to her. She could feel Death following her, trailing close behind. She imagined that if she were to turn around, a shadowed figure would be beckoning her.

When they reached the midwife's quaint house, Geneva led the younger woman to her room. She gently pushed the gypsy on to the bed and told her to remain still while she fetched some wine.

Esmeralda obeyed the midwife and did not move. When the midwife came fluttering back into the room and gave her a cup, the gypsy drank the spiced wine and sank further into the straw bed. She wanted to turn on her side and cry for the dead Quasimodo. She herself wanted to die. The Egyptian wanted to be free of the priest. In the end, the wine dulled her senses, and she closed her eyes and slept.

Shortly after Esmeralda fell asleep, Geneva's husband returned, and she gave him strict instructions to watch the sleeping girl. For no reason was she allowed to leave the house. The midwife could tell that he was curious about how the beautiful woman came to be sleeping in their bed, but he did not ask; he knew better than to delve into his wife's business. So he nodded his head and promised to watch the girl.

"Mind your daughter, too." Geneva's tone was stern. Quiterie was more than Jean could handle sometimes.

"Woman, nagging does not become you. Go about your problems; I have it under control." He lovingly swatted her on the rear and pushed her out the door.

"Where is your daughter?" The horrified look told on Jean's face told Geneva she had won. "Do not worry; she is sleeping. Ay, what will I do with you?"

"Go!" Jean chuckled before kissing her on the check.

Geneva made her way back to the little house in the woods. She was most surprised to see the dainty woman running crazily through the forest the first time she attempted the reach the house that day. She wondered what strange sight she would see this time.

Before she reached the house, she could feel that something was wrong. The midwife walked up to it and listened for any sounds. It was silent. Perhaps the girl was telling the truth, and there was a murderer inside. A small amount of fear and apprehension formed deep inside the woman, but it did not stop her.

Certain that there was no movement inside the house, Geneva took a deep breath and walked in.


	14. Donnez–la moi

Welcome to the very tardy meeting of Cool Kidos Associaton (CKA). While roll is being called, please let your presence at today's meeting known by clicking the review button and typing present or _ici_. According to last meeting's minutes, we were joined by the following Cool Kidos: gravity01, LilyHelling, Yami no Eyes, SSLE, sepler, Jareth's Genevieve, Clopins-Gypsy-Dancer, Sarah, bubblymuggle4, and SSLE. Their continued attendance is very much appreciated. There may be more than a few errors in here; but it is late, and I must conquer back my pillow from the cat.

Thanks to my task masters, gravity01 and SSLE, for keeping me on track.

--

The young goat cocked his black head to the left in order to examine the green leaves dangling so leisurely from the tree limb high above. Unfortunately for the animal, the leaves he desired remained safely out of his grasp. Of course there were other leaves on the ground, but they were dried and dead; the goat wanted the fresh, green leaves.

Carefully, he stood on his hind legs and placed his front hooves on the bark of the tree. When he had successfully stabilized himself, the goat stretched his short neck toward his prize. Much to the frustration and confusion of the goat, he did not reach any leaves. It did not matter, though. He would keep trying until he attained his goal.

Inside the house not far from where the blissful goat was tied up, there was a crushing silence, not that it troubled the only conscious man within its walls, the deformed bell ringer. Silence was almost his constant companion; his sweet bells were the only ones that could liberate him from it. So the deaf hunchback stood in the deadly silence, willing himself to move.

At first, the wretched creature feared he had killed his foster father, but the small, almost unnoticeable, rise and fall of the older man's chest indicated he was alive. A couple of times, Quasimodo wanted to reach out to the unconscious man but feared the consequences of possibly waking him; thus he stood, trapped in dread.

The hunchback closed his eyes. Immediately, his weary mind was drawn to a memory of the lovely gypsy girl dancing in the morning sunlight. She was probably safe now. He wished he were with the Egyptian as she fled, but it appeared Fate had not destined him to ever be her companion. He inhaled sharply; he was beginning to feel feverish again. The hunchback reluctantly opened his eyes and was startled.

Where there had been nothing before, a woman was kneeling next to the unconscious Frollo. She hastily checked his breathing and attempted to wake him. She turned her head and spoke to the startled bell ringer, but although Quasimodo was deaf, he was able to detect the accusations in her words.

"What did you do to him?" a frustrated midwife said again. Her brows furrowed as she turned her attention back to the man known as Claude.

"He's..he's not dead," the deformed boy stuttered as he stumbled forward; wet, fresh blood smeared his front. "He breathes."

Claude looked like death, save for his shallow breathing. The midwife looked even closer at the man. There were angry looking red marks around his throat. Geneva glanced back at the conscious man; it was obvious what caused the welts. The boy spoke again, "Can you save him?" he cried. "I cannot…I cannot."

"Did…did you do this?" Geneva's eyes flickered to what appeared to be a slash on the conscious man's forearm. Her confused mind tried to recreate the struggle.

The hideous boy did not respond to her question. The midwife cleared her throat in an attempt to get him to heed her, but it did not work. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. The woman's brother behaved as if he were deaf.

She turned her head away from the hunchback and spoke loudly of her intentions to have him prosecuted. All of it was false, but she hoped to receive a worthy reaction to such threats; she was disappointed. The boy remained quiet and aloof as ever.

The midwife shook her head; there more pressing matters that commanded her attention at the moment. Geneva narrowed her eyes as she concentrated. If the man on the ground had been strangled, as it appeared, he should have awoken by now, but he remained asleep.

Her brown eyes darted around the room in an attempt to find something that might aid her. Much to her pleasure, there was something. She quickly jumped to her feet and grabbed the container full of water. The determined midwife thought she saw the hunchback take a step toward her, but she did not stop. In one deft movement, she threw the water onto the man.

The midwife held her breath for a tense second, but soon the sleeping man sputtered back to life. Geneva smiled in satisfaction. The man known as Claude slowly sat up and turned his head left and right in an attempt to place his surroundings. When recognition set in, he touched the drenched material sticking to his chest; the man still seemed very perplexed.

He narrowed his eyes and tried to stand. The midwife noticed Claude's movements and offered a hand to help him, which he begrudgingly accepted. Once standing, she attempted to stabilize him, but the man shooed her away.

"Woman," he hissed, "do not come near." Geneva smirked. Men were unreasonable and completely unfathomable, this one more so.

The man known as Claude walked over to the youth, who quickly sunk to his knees. Incoherent syllables came out of the hideous boy's mouth, but Claude seemed to understand. The midwife watched the two men awkwardly eye each other as they engaged in a strange form of conversation. It was unlike anything she had seen before. They spoke not with words, but with hand gestures and body language.

Minutes passed. Claude looked turned his head and looked back at the midwife. "He is sick," he said softly, like a caring father. "He is cut, but perhaps you can help him?"

"Yes, of course," she abruptly replied. The older man nodded and stepped away from the hunchback. Geneva took this as her sign and stepped forward to investigate the patient. There was a fresh, shallow cut on his arm, nothing dangerous, and his older wound was healing perfectly. Aside from scars, the boy would recover nicely.

The midwife set about her work and tended to the hunchback. While she did so, Claude stared out the door, apparently lost in thought.

Once finished, she stood and cleaned the small mess that had accumulated around her and the deformed creature during her work. When everything was back in its place, she prepared to leave, but Claude stood in her way. He was still looking out into the forest.

"Excuse me, sir," the midwife said as she straightened her wimple.

"Is she gone?" he whispered. There was a pause before the woman decided to answer.

"If you are wondering about your tiny wife," the midwife said lazily, "she is currently sleeping at my house. The little thing was in quite the frenzy."

The older man slowly turned and contemplated her, and his face took on a hard expression. She felt slightly uncomfortable under his dissecting gaze. After a moment of silence, he demanded to be taken to her. "Of course," the midwife sighed. "What is a woman without her husband?"

Frollo stood aside and let the woman pass before following her into the forest. Quasimodo, who was unable to distinguish what had been said in the transaction, watched the pair leave. He was tired, sore, and hurt, but he was not worried. La Esmeralda was gone. The priest would never find her.

--

"Quiterie, I have your dog." Jean smiled at his distraught daughter. She had been frantically searching the house for her lost, little dog until Jean decided to end her torture. He flipped a basket over, and the dog jumped out to greet its young mistress.

"Bad, bad, bad dog," the child cooed as she scooped the puppy up in her arms. The tiny thing squirmed and tried to lick her face. "Papa, how did you know where he was?"

Jean hesitated. "I saw him crawl under the basket." He failed to mention the dog crawled under the basket with the aid of two human hands. The little girl smiled and kissed her happy dog.

Jean smirked. He was quite pleased with how he was managing the house, until Geneva sternly walked in accompanied by another figure. "Geneva?" Jean asked. He had grown accustomed to visitors, but he had never seen the man before him.

"Jean," his wife said, "is the girl still sleeping?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Good." The midwife indicated for the man to follow, and they walked into the bedroom, leaving a very bewildered Jean behind. He shrugged; his wife was forever confusing him. Besides, he had other things to worry about, like the location of where Quiterie had hidden.

Inside the room, it was relatively dark. Frollo could see the form of La Esmeralda curled on her side with her back facing them. The oversized dress she wore consumed her frame and made her look so very fragile and small. He sighed.

Geneva tepidly walked over to the sleeping girl and gently tapped her on the shoulder. The Bohemian instantly turned around to face the midwife. She seemed happy and even smiled.

"Your brother is well," the midwife said flatly, "as is your husband." The young girl's smile quickly faded. Geneva spoke again, "Claude came for you."

"Oh," the girl said quietly as she eyed the man standing not far from them. "But my brother is…alive?"

"Yes. Are you well?" The girl looked at her with a sad glance. No, it appeared she was not feeling well. Geneva had seen it before, and she would see it again. A young woman forced to marry an older man was a common enough story.

"Things will be better when you see your brother awake and in good spirits. It will be better," the midwife whispered. She solemnly looked at the girl then back to her husband.

"Claude," Geneva said louder, "your wife is still frail. Be gentle with her." The man, who had been dutifully standing several paces away, approached the two women and feasted upon the lovely image of his young love. She avoided his fiery stare and looked at Geneva, who abruptly pulled the girl to her feet.

"Dear wife," Frollo said. "As I have promised, your Quasimodo is alive." The girl hung her head. "Come, and I will show you." He grabbed her hand and led her out of the dark room and quickly out of the house. Geneva followed them to the threshold.

When they were far from her house, the midwife turned and demanded to know how Jean had lost their young daughter.

--

Aside from the throbbing pain in his neck and head, the once Archdeacon felt joyous. His love, his salvation and damnation, was back in his possession. When he had regained consciousness, it appeared the gypsy girl had fled from him. At first, he was stunned, then hurt, then angry. She still did not understand.

He now mercilessly clung to her upper arm as they marched back to their tiny home. A few times she struggled against his grip but was unable to free herself. She was once again trapped within the priest sticky web.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Frollo slowed their procession.

"How can I sway you?" he halted and faced La Esmeralda.

The Bohemian looked at the welts on his neck and shook her head. "You are death. It follows, and it now follows me. Shall I ever be rid of you?"

"I will give you anything you could ever want, just love me." He held a hand to her tiny face and gazed into her black eyes

"Never!" she cried and struggled against him.

"Then perhaps something else would persuade you to stay," he said almost mockingly. "You once again face a choice. You can live as my slave or as my wife. I shall lock you in a room and keep you away from all humanity. Or you can live happily with me. Either way, you shall be mine."

"Then it is not life…" she trailed off.

He smiled. "So you have made your decision; I am to be the master instead of the husband?"

"I will never be happy with you."

"Foolish child, I could give you anything. We can be content." The girl stood silent. "Fine. Then I shall lock you in a room again. But then what of your precious bell ringer? Perhaps I shall kill him and be done with it."

"No," she sighed wearily. "I have given myself to you so that he may live. I shall honor my promise, if you honor yours." A tear fell from her glorious eye down her rosy cheek.

For a moment, a flash of guilt spread through his body. His beautiful angel felt she was sacrificing herself for the hideous Quasimodo. He did not wish to her to feel that way, but he understood love would come eventually. Full of emotion for the young girl before him, the priest leant forward and kissed his beloved wife. Quickly, he pulled away and said, "Your hunchback is awake. Come, let us retreat for the day."

Defeated, La Esmeralda was guided back to the house of her torment. Inside was the bell ringer, who was obviously sad with her return. She glanced in his direction but was not able to give a reassuring expression. He was just as wretched as she.

The priest walked in behind her and quickly shut the door; it was instantly darker in the room

--

The young cleric sat at a dull wooden desk as he prepared several homilies for the forthcoming week. Idly, he turned the pages in his large Bible before glancing up at the statue of Blessed Virgin holding the Holy Child. He moaned. Lord, was he jaded.

Thinking he had found a worthy distraction, Bellamy stood and inspected the statue for any filth; he would hate for a small blemish to take away from the Madonna's beauty. Sadly, he often used cleaning as a diversion, and there was no dirt to be found. Bellamy ruefully returned to his desk.

He skimmed the pages of the Gospels for any inspirational text, but nothing inspired him. When he began to trace tiny crosses on his paper, he felt the weight of someone's gaze boring into his back. He turned to examine his spectator. It was the withered form of Jesus upon the cross.

"It's too hot," Bellamy tried to explain to the wooden face. When it remained the same, Bellamy reasoned Christ was a sympathetic being. If he could forgive and grant grace to the adulterous Samaritan woman, surely he would pardon a bored priest. Feeling slightly justified in his conclusion, the young man stood and walked out of his chapel. What a happy day it was outside!

From the entry of the church, Bellamy greeted passing people and waved to those too far off. Yes, he thought, today was a day to be spent amongst his flock. But his newfound joy was quickly destroyed when he saw a gaggle of old women approaching. He frowned. Certainly this was God's punishment.

"Father!" one cried. "You know everything going on in our humble village; certainly you could shed some light on our questions."

"My dear mothers," he said warmly, "it is not healthy to allow rumors to spread."

"Ah," cried another, "it is not rumors we share, merely mild curiosity."

"In that case, perhaps I can help."

Forming a circle around the priest, the women started their interrogation. "There are strangers in our midst. Surely you have noticed them by now."

"There are always pilgrims passing through our town. It is nothing new."

"Of course there are always pilgrims; they come for a day or two and quickly leave. We know, we know. Whom we are speaking of are not travelers. They seem to be new inhabitants of the forest. There have been several sightings of them in the past couple of days. Do you know who they are?"

Bellamy crossed his arms and tried to figure out whom the old women were inquiring after. Then he realized and chuckled. How could he forget? They were no doubt talking about Claude and his young wife with the sickly brother.

The priest shallowly bobbed his head several times before coming to the assumption that the women had information to share about the strange pair. He quickly answered their question. "Yes, I do believe I know. Geneva passed by a few days ago and introduced to me a man named Claude and his wife."

"It may be them!" one very old woman gasped. "The seamstress says an unknown couple bought two dresses from her. Two!"

The women clucked in disgust and carried on with their gossip. Bellamy was intently paying attention. Every now and then, he preferred fancy, extravagant tales to the truth. Elaborated details were always more fun.

For several minutes, the conversation was completely dedicated to the new couple who caused such a stir in the little village. Bellamy was quite intrigued, but all too soon, the conversation changed to something else.

"But what news of Paris?" a woman screeched. "I hear the monarch is in town. Has anything come of it?" Bellamy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Politics were so dreary.

"Mothers," Bellamy interrupted, "I must return to my work. There is nothing more enjoyable than being in your presence, but unfortunately, sermons do not write themselves." The women chuckled and bade Bellamy goodbye. He could hear their shrill voices even after he had retreated into the quiet sanctuary of the church.

With much determination, he returned to his small office. The priest disregarded his bible and pulled up a chair in front of the crucifix nailed to the wall. Certainly he would receive inspiration directly from the Lord.

Thirty minutes later, Bellamy was asleep in his chair.

"Bellamy!" a loud voice pierced the calm atmosphere and woke the slumbering priest. He leapt into the air and searched for the owner of the voice.

"Y..yes?" He asked groggily.

"Bellamy," an old woman from the gaggle said, "they just passed. They just passed! Poor dear, here you were, working hard in the service of the Lord, and you missed them."

The priest was extremely puzzled. "Who?"

"Them, the couple," the woman said happily. "They are a strange sort."

"Have they gone?" Bellamy tried to ask as indifferently as possible.

"Why, yes, they have. Once they had receded into the forest, I came in here to find you." The young priest nodded his head and walked with the woman outside the church, where the rest of the elderly women stood.

"Blessed Saints," one said, "did you see her? She looked like Death, and he wasn't much better."

"But I wonder what her name is," queried another. They looked to Bellamy for an answer, but he shook his head. Her name was still a mystery to him.

"Bellamy, as our priest, perhaps you should…welcome them," one offered. He shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms; it seemed like the decent thing to do. He would have the midwife take him to their residence so that he might welcome them properly into the village. After all, he was the shepherd of the community, and the welfare of his sheep was so very important to him.


	15. Lune

Happy 2008! Huge thanks to Takhira, Jareth's Genevieve, LazyChestnut, friendorphantom, SSLE, Sarah, gravity01, Dark knightress, Lillebule, IrisedLuna, Madhatter45, DarkMagicWhiteLight, and mskennedy04. Your reviews made my year. Hopefully y'all haven't given up.

And a mammoth of a thanks goes out to gravity01. I probably would have thrown my hands in the air and quit without you!

--

Claude Frollo wanted to kick Quasimodo. The throbbing ache in his head and neck was driving the weary man to the brink of insanity. Visions of his attacker's destruction dominated his thoughts; but fortunately for the sleeping hunchback, the wild part of Frollo's crazed mind that was demanding the bell ringer's death was overruled only by the priest's weariness. Perhaps tomorrow he would actually kill the boy.

At the moment, though, he was silently pacing the perimeter of the tiny front room. While his tired limbs longed for sleep, Frollo had been unable to close his eyes and remain motionless. When his frustration had reached its zenith, he stood and began to slowly march up and down the room.

As he was preparing to make another pass, he heard a gentle sigh come from the back room. Blessed Saints! In all his pain he had forgotten about the heavenly creature inhabiting the other room. He made his way over to the door and opened it, careful not to make the old hinges squeal. The sight that greeted him momentarily made him forget about the agonizing pain.

La Esmeralda was, as the priest had imagined, sleeping on the straw bed with her face turned away from the door. Her tiny body was illuminated by the few shreds of moonlight that were able to break through the forest canopy and then the old roof. Her black hair reflected the light and formed a halo around her lovely face. There was another soft sigh and the gypsy girl turned on to her side, her back now facing Frollo. He sighed quietly, too.

The priest felt sorry for the sleeping girl. It had been at least two days since he had last seen her. Once they had returned from the midwife's house, he had thrown her into the back room without as much as a word. The next day he had paced around the miserable front room hoping to find some release from the relentless pain. A few times he had threatened Quasimodo, but the quiet hunchback remained where he was, always eying the door that separated him and his mistress. The steadfast devotion the bell ringer continued to show the Bohemian angered Frollo and he promised that once his strength had returned he would throw the bell ringer from the house.

A small movement from his wife brought Frollo out of his thoughts. Perhaps it had been too rash of a move to keep her locked away. This was not how he had wanted their life to be. He had predicted she would initially protest, but he had hoped that she would quickly abandon her prejudice and grow to love him, well at least tolerate him. Instead she continued to torment him with her cruel words and actions. Oh, women are an evil breed, he thought to himself.

Frollo sagged his shoulders and dropped his head. The pain was beginning to return and he had been suddenly crushed by a wave of despair. If only she could understand that his very life was now centered around her. Without her, there would be no reason to live. Resignedly, he brought his head up to exam the girl again.

Even with her back turned toward him, Frollo could see how terribly thin she had become. He remembered how she looked when last saw her. Where once she was plump and healthy, bones now were beginning to appear and her dress hung from her. Her lovely face had become thin and gaunt, yet she was still beautiful to him. Her hair, once carefully combed, sleek and radiant, had become thick with knots and had a somewhat dull appearance. And she had not eaten in two days! Frollo cursed his negligence. No wonder she felt only hatred towards him.

The priest stood at the doorway contemplating the last interaction between him and Esmeralda for several minutes until his thought were interrupted by La Esmeralda.

"Have you missed your wife?" a bitter voice spat. Frollo remained silent, surprised by the vindictive tone in the girl's voice.

"Have you missed your husband?" After the words had left his mouth, he instantly regretted the amount of venom in his own tone.

"Ah, my loved one, it is only natural that I should miss your presence. You are my beloved husband, after all." Frollo grimaced. Leaving the girl alone had let her hate fester, and now it was stronger than before.

"Dear wife," said he, "I am weary tonight. Perhaps I shall leave you alone for a few days. By then surely my health will have returned and we can enjoy each other's company." He turned to leave.

"No," she cried, her tone suddenly more passive. He stopped and turned around to face her again. "I do not feel well. Certainly I shall die in a few days."

The spite he had felt for the girl at the beginning of their conversation disappeared, only to be replaced by an overwhelming feeling of guilt. His young, darling wife was sick and practically asking for his help. For the past two days he had put his own welfare before hers, and now it was his fault she had become ill. The priest quickly rushed toward the girl and knelt beside her.

"Please forgive me," he whispered and slowly tried to touch her hand, which she moved away from him. "It is my fault… You have not eaten in days. There is some bread…let me get it for you." He quickly rushed from the room and returned with the promised food and a cup of water.

The priest watched as La Esmeralda hesitantly accepted the proffered food and began to eat. While she ate, she would study the bread or her fingers, but a few times she let her gaze slowly drift up to him, then quickly shift to something else. For what seemed like an eternity to Frollo, she slowly picked at the bread and finally finished it.

"You have grown thin," he said once she had finished dinking the cup of water. "Forgive my negligence. I should never have let you gone for so long without food." The girl remained silent.

"I promise, my love, I will be better in the future. If you do not love me, at least allow me to take care of you. You will not starve while I am still alive."

"Is Quasimodo still alive?" she whispered, all the venom gone from her voice.

"Oh, yes. Of course you would ask about your wounded hero." He tried to muster up hatred for the bell ringer, but he was too weary. "Do not worry. I have promised, long ago, that he will live, and he has. He stays in the front room, ever watchful for your presence. But let us not speak of him right now. You are ill, try to sleep."

Frollo took the cup out of her hand and watched as she lay back down on the bed. The small amount of moonlight provided enough light for him to see her close her eyes. For several minutes he stood near the bed watching over her until he was certain that she was asleep.

When her breathing became regular and she appeared completely relaxed, the weary Frollo apprehensively approached the bed. Quite confident that she was asleep, he climb onto the bed and positioned himself next to his sleeping wife. Happy with his small success, he gathered the thin gypsy in his arms and fell asleep.

The two slept peacefully for many hours until La Esmeralda woke, surprised to find herself being cradled by the priest. She carefully slipped from his arms and jump away from the bed. She wrapped her arms around body to protect herself from the crisp night air.

The girl looked dismally back at the warm bed and the priest, who mumbled something and turned on his back. The Egyptian frowned. She had thought for a few blessed days that the priest had forgotten about her. How foolish, she thought. At least tonight Claude had been in a sane mind and not at all the crazed animal she had begun to think he was. His words almost seemed sincere.

The gypsy girl shook her head at the thought; it was dangerous to continue thinking of the goblin monk like that. He was her torturer. He was an assassin sent from Hell.

Attempting to preoccupy herself, she looked around the room. It was mostly dark, but a few outlines were distinguishable in the blackness. The door, as she assumed, was closed. Although she suspected the door was locked, she tried to open it, only to find her suspicions to be true. She kicked the door and let out a hushed swear.

There was a soft murmur behind her, and Esmeralda turned around to face the priest. To her chagrin, he was still asleep. She had noticed before that there was something about the goblin monk when he slept that fascinated the gypsy girl. He always slept on his back with his arms athwart his chest. He also looked quite vulnerable.

She neared the bed and examined the priest. Tonight was no different; he was sleeping on his back with his arms folded. Cautiously, as not to wake him, the Bohemian lifted one of Claude's arms and let it fall to his side. The priest murmured something in his sleep and then returned the hand to its proper resting place. The gypsy girl's mouth twisted into a small smirk. She had found a new game.

It seemed like hours had passed to La Esmeralda before she became bored with manipulating the sleeping priest. Sometimes he would quickly replace his hands, sometimes it took longer. Sometimes he would mumble, but most of the time he remained silence. One time she had thought he said something about not giving any money to someone, but Esmeralda could not understand him completely.

When she lost complete interest in moving his hands, she ruffled his hair and had to restrain herself from slapping him. She did not want to wake the beast.

After the initial appeal wore off, the gypsy girl found it harder to resist sleep. Her eyes were beginning to droop and her stomach was beginning to feel queasy again. The bread had not helped for long. She frowned. Although she was quite content with herself, she decided it would be better if she went to sleep. Being awake with the sick feeling was never enjoyable.

After one final ruffle of the priest's dwindling locks, the Bohemian with a smile on her face crossed the room and sank to the ground. She padded her head with her matted hair and turned on her side, hoping to find some relief from the oncoming sickness. After several minutes, the girl felt sleep creeping in and cradled her stomach and the new life that she suspected was growing inside her. During the last few moments of before she slipped into unconsciousness, she prayed to the Virgin that child would die inside of her.


	16. Esmeralda tu Sais

Mucho thanks-o to my magnanimous reviewers, gravity01, SSLE, LazyChestnut, mskennedy04, Lillebule, Humpy, Madhatter45, and Jareth's Genevieve. You guys are the best!

On a more serious note, this chapter is a bit darker than I ever anticipated. You may want to consider that before you continue, but I don't think it's _too_ bad. Just FYI.

--

Bellamy set down the book he had been reading and looked despairingly at the wall and frowned. Something about the wall irked him. His desk was not parallel with it. He smiled pleasantly, he would fix it. The young priest stood and lifted one corner of the desk and slid the heavy wooden object a tiny fraction to the right. Perhaps, he thought, the desk should be moved more to the left. He moved behind the desk and shoved it to the left. No, no, that was all wrong. It needed to go to the right again. He pushed it to the right.

Sure that he had completed the task, Bellamy straightened his back and looked at between the desk and wall and calculated the two. The desk was still not even with the wall! He violently crossed his arms and cursed, then looked around to make sure he was still alone. Fine, he decided, the desk would probably look better against the other wall. He placed both hands on the desk, but before he could give a strong push, he heard his name being called. Heavens, he hadn't even heard the door open.

He quickly tidied his robes and ran a few fingers through his hair, frantically hoping his appearance wasn't as disheveled as he felt. He heard his name again.

"Geneva?" he called to the disembodied voice.

"Bellamy." There was a hint of urgency in her tone. "Come here. I have grave news."

"News?" He walked into the sanctuary and saw the midwife standing by the large doors with her arms crossed.

"Claudine's child is sick. I fear she will not make survive the night."

Bellamy stopped walking and straightened his robes, waiting for Geneva to continue.

"The babe is hot with fever. Claudine begged to call for a doctor, but the child will be dead by the time he arrives, if they can even convince one to come."

Comprehension suddenly dawned on Bellamy. Claudine and her husband and been childless for several years; when she had begun to show, the town thanked God for the couple's good fortune. If he remembered correctly the child had been born only day or two ago. He looked at Geneva again and asked forlornly, "There is nothing that can be done?"

"Nothing. Perhaps it is time for baptism…before the babe dies." Geneva paused then said, "She will be the second baby to die this summer. It has been a hard year." She let out a weary sigh.

"Is Quieterie in good health?" Bellamy asked, hoping to relieve the sudden dreariness that had enveloped the small chapel.

"Of course. She inherited her father's excellent health. She hardly coughs." Geneva looked around the room and hugged herself as if she were cold.

"That is good." Bellamy wiped an invisible piece of dust from his vestments.

"I suggested to Claudine that she bring the child soon, but she cannot be convinced. She does not want to move her. Pierre is working hard, but I doubt Claudine will heed his words. The child must be baptized."

"Yes, yes. We shall baptize the child. If Claudine will not bring the babe, I will go to it," said Bellamy.

"Thank you." Geneva smiled then opened the door and went outside. Bellamy hesitated. He hated seeing sick children, especially babies. Their little eyes always seemed so sad, mirroring their inability to comprehend the pain they were in. But he would go and baptize the dying child so it could receive Christ's grace. Frowning, he followed Geneva outside.

When they arrived at the home of Pierre and Claudine, they were greeted by a small group of women who had congregated by the doorway and were emitting a low hum comprised of gentle whispers. No doubt the women were kindly sharing made up stories about the couple's misfortunes. Bellamy wearily shook his head.

"Geneva," one said. "Is it true? Pierre will not let anyone in, nor will he tell us anything. Is the baby ill?"

"Hush," Geneva spat at the woman. "Give Claudine and the child some peace." She then entered the house.

"Bellamy?" The woman faced the young priest, who said nothing and entered the house.

Once inside, Bellamy saw Pierre standing next to Claudine, who was sitting on the ground, clinging to her baby and crying softly. As they entered the small house, she turned her head toward them and let out a wail of grief.

"No, Geneva," Claudine cried. "She will not die, she will not die!" She turned her head away from the two visitors and hunched over the baby, who did not move or make a sound.

"Love," said Pierre sternly and bent to touch his wife's shoulder. "Ila must be baptized so she can die having been received into the community of the Church."

Bellamy winced. He doubted Claudine would find any comfort in her husband's blunt words, let alone surrender the baby from her arms. The priest looked sadly at the desperate mother. Geneva stepped forward, but Bellamy held out a hand to stop her. Sometimes Geneva lacked any tenderness.

"Claudine," Bellamy said softly and slowly approached the mother and baby. "May I see your daughter?" Claudine wearily looked at him but did not say a word. Bellamy lowered himself to be eye level with the frantic mother. She shook her head and murmured.

Bellamy glanced at the child. Her skin was slightly pale. He did not think it a good sign.

"Ila is beautiful," he said, smiling at Claudine, who inhaled deeply. A ghost of a smile spread across her lips and she began to rock back and forth. Assuming that Claudine was beginning to relax minutely, the young priest raised a hand to the babe's face and tenderly touched her pale cheek. To his surprise, it was slightly cool to the touch. Claudine had been clasping a dead baby to her bosom for quite awhile. Trying not to alarm the unaware mother, Bellamy asked, "May I hold her? I will give her back."

Claudine made no move to give up the baby, but Bellamy was able to carefully pry the child away from her.

He had never held a dead child before, and it unnerved him. He looked from Pierre to Geneva, who were both looking at him expectantly. They did not know Ila was dead. He promptly decided he would baptize the child and give them some peace.

He poured a small amount of water on the baby's head and pronounced the sacred words that would grant the child grace. He then smoothed the babe's wet hair and made a cross on its tiny forehead. Perhaps she had found peace with God, he hoped.

He held the baby in his arms for a few more minutes before handing her back to Claudine and then walking over to where the midwife and Pierre were standing. "Geneva," Bellamy whispered, "I believe the child is dead."

Geneva, who had not taken her eyes of the mother and baby, quickly turned her attention to the priest. "Do not worry," he lied. "She died after the baptism, in my arms." The midwife's stern expression softened and she looked again at Claudine.

"This is a sad year," she said before turning her head to talk to Pierre.

--

It had been a few days before La Esmeralda realized the house was too quiet. Although Claude hardly left her side, she was still restrained to the back room. At first, she thought nothing about the silence, merely dismissed it as a blessing, but she finally realized that something must be very wrong with the deformed bell ringer.

She pressed her ear to the door, hoping to hear signs of life, but there was nothing, only the quietness that had been so prevalent for many days. The gypsy frowned. The horrible priest had promised he would not let anything happen to Quasimodo, yet now it appeared something was amiss.

"Quasimodo?" she said quietly, already knowing her call would not be answered. She reprimanded herself. How silly it was to try and whisper to a man who had no ears to hear her. She chuckled mournfully.

Esmeralda sat down again and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Since the priest had promised to be a better husband, she cringed at the thought of considering _that _man her husband, her health had improved dramatically. The pains in her stomach that had become almost too much to bear had been quieted, and she no longer dreamt of food all day long. He even presented her with a comb and made her brush the tangles from her hair. She ran a hand through her silken hair and exhaled noisily. She had been so close to death but the priest had denied her of that, too.

A noise from the front room jerked the Bohemian from her thoughts. The door had opened, which could only mean Claude had returned. She stood, waiting for him to enter the room.

When the priest opened the door, he looked surprised to see her standing, apparently waiting for him. Frollo hesitantly opened the door all the way and looked at her expectantly. She bit her lower lip, and he knew she was restraining herself from saying something. He laughed quietly.

"Dearest Esmeralda," he said, "surely you are not so delighted with my return that you cannot speak. What is it you would like to say?" The girl narrowed her eyes a tiny fraction.

"It is quiet," she said at last. Frollo was stunned. He had not expected that from her.

"My dear, we are surrounded by trees. There is not the congestion here as there is in Paris to make such loud noises. I had thought you would have grown to like the silence by now." The frown that marred her pretty face made him smile. As her health returned, so did her spirit.

"No, no," she hissed. "Where is Quasimodo?"

Claude suddenly frowned. He had not expected her to find out so quickly. "He is gone," he said severely and walked out of her line of sight into the front room. She quickly followed.

"Gone?" Her tone was slightly high and irritated. "But he is ill. He will be killed! How could he be gone?"

The goblin monk turned his back to her, and La Esmeralda knew she was beginning to vex him. But it did not matter. They had a bargain that he was not upholding. When she summoned her bravery and mentioned so, he snapped his head back at her and scowled.

"Wife," he spat, "do not mention that. I upheld our bargain. Quasimodo was nursed back to health. In fact, he was so healthy that he was becoming bored with being contained in these four small walls. I figured it was best if he was sent away so he would not become a _nuisance_." The last word he said with such venom that the gypsy winced.

"You have killed him," she accused and immediately rued her harsh words and temperament. The priest's eyes narrowed and his expression was murderous.

At that moment, La Esmeralda sorely wished she had not asked about the hunchback, at least with such a vindictive tone. The priest had been so docile for several days that she had become used to, even slightly comfortable with him. He had been more of a doting father than the crazed madman she once feared. Now the angry glint in his eyes she could see from across the room made her uneasy.

"Ah, but what an arrangement. The selfless creature that you are surrenders to me in order to save the life of a wretched hunchback. Your story is worthy of a troubadour's song." The priest paused and chuckled. "My dearest love, do not frown so. You do no justice to your lovely face. He was still alive when he left this house."

"Does not his wellbeing concern you?" she asked in a slightly meeker tone.

"His wellbeing? I should have let the old nags kill the misfortunate boy." His eyes burned and seared into the scared girl. "Did I ever tell you that I saved him from a murdering group of women when he was but a child?" The Egyptian apprehensively shook her head. "Yes, I raised the ungrateful child as a son, along with…" Claude was suddenly quiet.

"I once had a brother," the priest whispered. "But he is dead, his head smashed on the steps of Notre Dame. Do you know what he was doing when he so bravely died?" Esmeralda began to speak, but Claude interrupted her. "He had rallied all of Paris' vagabonds to your aid. They were attempting to storm the cathedral in order to save you."

La Esmeralda lowered her eyes. The priest spoke with such fierce passion that she did not attempt to awake his fury even more by speaking. She looked at the ground and straightened her dress. She hoped the priest's anger would pass quickly.

Soft footfalls from Claude moving forward alerted Esmeralda, and she tensed. He continued with his monologue. "But men have always died for beauty, have they not? Fair Helen brought about the demise of Troy with her beauty. I should not blame you." He was so close now; the Egyptian backed away in order to give herself more space. She let out a tiny cry when her back hit the wall.

A rough hand grabbed her arm and jerked her forward, closer to the priest, and held her there. La Esmeralda whimpered when she felt his other hand stroke her hair. She cursed the hours she had spent combing her hair.

"I digress," Claude murmured into her ear. "We were talking about our contract… It has been many days since you upheld your end of our _bargain_." The hand that had been petting her hair snaked around her waist and brought her even closer to the goblin monk. She tried to free herself from his embrace, but the priest tightened his hold on her.

"Will you bring Quasimodo back?" she whispered. She could almost fell the priest's sneer.

"Never," he said and crushed her lips with a kiss. Immediately she began to squirm, but the priest pushed her into the wall so she could not move. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she was beginning to feel light-headed. Brutal hands roamed over her body and hot kisses seared her neck. She fought the urge to heave.

When a hand began to furiously unfasten the ties on the back of her dress, La Esmeralda panicked. She could not allow him to do this to her, not when he had banished Quasimodo away from the house. She violently kicked and stomped until his embrace loosened. She dashed into the back room, slamming the door as she passed.

Before she could prepare herself, the door flew open and Claude entered the room, his appearance calmer than she had expected.

"My love," he said, "why do you run? After all, you showed such emotion about me upholding the bargain, is it only fair I expect the same from you?" La Esmeralda had such a feral look on her face that he was almost wary about approaching her. But before she could act, he quickly lunged forward and grabbed a tiny wrist.

She moaned in pain. The priest was twisting her arm at an unnatural angle, surely it would break! She bent closer to him, hoping the pain would dissipate. It did. The priest let go of her wrist and wrapped an arm around her.

"My dear, do not struggle. I do not want to hurt you, but when you thrash about so, I have no choice. Come now. Kiss me, my darling." He kissed her, and almost immediately La Esmeralda went limp in his arms; he knew that she had given up the fight.

He gently pushed her onto the ground and pulled up her skirts. He looked at her beautiful face, her eyes were shut tight and her lips seemed to be forming words, but he did not care. After all, he was receiving just payment for upholding his end of her bargain. He kissed her roughly again.

La Esmeralda kept her eyes shut until she felt the priest move away from her. She lay unmoving for several minutes, trying her best not to draw his attention back to her. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard his breathing become shallow and even, he was sleeping. She almost shrieked when she felt arms wrapping around her.

"Surely you do not care so for Quasimodo," Claude whispered in her ear as he stroked her hair. She remained silent. "It does not matter," he continued. "You will learn to live without him, perhaps even be happy. Your health has already greatly improved without his sickly presence in the house."

"I am tired," she lied, hoping he would leave her alone.

"Sleep, then." His voice was suddenly kinder, gentler. She closed her eyes and turned on her side, hoping he would loosen his embrace. The priest simple held her closer and sighed.

After several moments, La Esmeralda felt the priest relax and his breathing became peaceful. This time he was truly asleep. She tried to stay awake – she had slept most of the afternoon – but she could not keep herself from closing her eyes. She felt Claude's hand wrap around her stomach, and she thought about his child growing inside her. She breathed deeply then fell asleep.

She dreamt of a tiny baby girl with black eyes and dark hair, just like her. The baby would coo and giggle as she held her arms out to be held. La Esmeralda smiled and played with the baby's little tufts of hair. The babe giggled even more. She picked the baby up and held her delicately in her arms. She had never felt so happy. She smiled and looked up, Claude's gaze met hers. Yes, he was happy too. A smile graced her lips. She was content holding her daughter and sitting near her husband.

Esmeralda jolted awake, still disturbed by her dream. It was close to nighttime, and the priest was asleep in the crook of her arm. The Bohemian tried to shrug him off, but the arm that was wrapped possessively around her tightened. She felt sick again. She needed to be free from his embrace.

With as much energy she could muster, she shoved Claude away and ran into the front room. The pitcher of water was balancing on the edge of an old table and looked like it would fall at any moment. She dashed over to it and poured a glass of water. She drank heavily, but when she had finished, she did not feel any better.

His scent was everywhere. Every time she breathed, the horrible memory of her happy dream filled her mind. La Esmeralda threw the cup down in frustration. She would do anything to be free of his scent.

"My love," the priest's voice said from far behind her. She cringed. "I shall have to buy a new cup. Perhaps you would like to go to the town? I daresay you deserve it. You have been nothing but a dutiful wife."

La Esmeralda smiled slightly. The priest's words were fading into silence as the airy feeling in her head became all she could think about. Her world was going gray, and then suddenly it was black.


	17. Bohemienne

A huge hug and a wet, slobbery kiss to gravity01, Madhatter45, SSLE, Jareth's Genevieve, LazyChestnut, Humpy, Takhira, mskennedy04, Lillebule, friendorphantom, and No One Mourns the Wicked for reviewing. You guys made my, uh, two months. But hopefully I'll be better. I want to update every week, so there. :)

There is an English lyric(ish) from the musical hidden (I think it's rather obvious), but if someone finds it, they may get a special treat…or trick. Probably a treat.

* * *

Claude Frollo glared disdainfully at the broken cup. He had never dreamt that someday he would live as a pauper with such few items. As he lazily began to pick up the shards of broken clay, visions of a warm, brightly lit house and a healthy Esmeralda flooded his mind. He smiled whimsically.

Placing the shards on the top of the worn table, Frollo frowned at their current misfortune. Even living as a poor priest was more luxurious than the little shack. But, he reminded himself, with all the comforts he once had as the Archdeacon, he had not been content. Up until the first glorious morning when he saw La Esmeralda, life had been a series of disappointments, of failures. He decided this current hell with her was paradise.

Frollo strode across the room and opened the door and leant against the doorframe. At first he thought he was looking for Quasimodo lurking in the woods, but his thoughts began to stray away from the deformed boy to the weather. The air was cooler than it had been and the days were getting shorter. Winter was several months away, but it suddenly became a concern to him. He hoped the little house would be inhabitable.

His thoughts were far away when he heard Esmeralda's voice behind him. Surprised, he jumped a little. He hadn't planned for her to wake for at least a couple of hours, and even if she had, he didn't expect her to come out of her little retreat area. She was talking, asking for something.

Esmeralda was looking at him pleadingly. He realized he hadn't heard her request. He raised his eyebrows in hopes she would repeat her question. She sighed unhappily.

"Can I go outside?" she asked quietly.

Frollo wanted to laugh at the how petty her request seemed, but he frowned. Of course she would ask. She saw him as her jail keeper, and he had hardly let her outside of the four walls.

He stared at her for a moment, contemplating what to do. She started to fidget under his gaze, which only made him more disheartened. "Yes," he said, trying to soften his features. She gave a slight, nervous smile.

When she didn't immediately step forward, Frollo realized she was probably waiting for him to move away from the door. Quickly he stepped out of the doorframe and onto the soft grass. Slowly, cautiously Esmeralda walked outside. He noticed she was once again barefoot.

Once outside, Frollo thought he saw a genuine, happy smile grace the Bohemian's lips. If it was there, it vanished quickly. She looked back at him, and there was no smile. She seemed dismayed.

"Something not to your liking, my love?" he asked.

"He really is gone," she replied, looking around the woods.

He instantly knew who she was talking about. "Not to worry, Esmeralda, I'm sure your champion is still prowling around the woods, waiting to snatch you."

"He is good and kind," she said, taking a step away from Frollo.

"Yes, the poor fool. And he will be wretched until he dies," Frollo smirked. He expected her to defend the hunchback, she was surprisingly energetic when protecting Quasimodo's good name, but she remained silent. However, he did see her give a little huff.

"Let us not fight, dearest," he exclaimed. "You wanted to be outside, why not take advantage of the situation? Perhaps you would like to walk in the forest or go to the little pond." She seemed to perk a little. "Go wherever you would like."

She stared at him incredulously. "Alone?" she queried. He chuckled, but then realized that she might feel more liberated if she thought she was alone.

"Of course," he said. La Esmeralda narrowed her eyes in obvious distrust. "Why should I worry? Where would you run to? Even if you make it through the night, how do you plan on living, or traveling to Paris?" he chuckled. "I'm sure you don't know the penalty for an unfaithful wife. I'm afraid citizens frown on disloyalty."

With a departing smile, the priest walked into the house. Once inside, he pressed his ear against the door, waiting to hear her soft footfalls move away from the house. He heard her take a few steps, then there was silence. He waited several moments before opening the door and walking outside.

Frollo walked only a few paces and looked in the direction he thought he heard her go in.

"Alone?" Esmeralda said. "I knew you had planned to follow." She was sitting on the ground next to her happily grazing little goat. Her hand absently pet the creature and she was scowling at him. "Like you said, where would I go? You've taken everything."

"Perhaps I wasn't going to follow you. Perhaps I have grown weary of you and have decided to leave for Paris," he quipped. Her features remained impassive. He walked over to the girl and goat and sat down by the pair.

"Is his name still Claude?" he asked, gesturing to the kid.

"Yes," she smirked, "and there's even a little bald spot in between his horns." She chuckled acrimoniously, pointing to the cowlick on top of its head. He grimaced.

"It gives him a distinguished appearance," Frollo replied. "Handsome fellow."

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow. "Poor thing," she said and smiled bitterly, "to resemble such a vile beast. I pity him. But his silence is appreciated."

"How pleasant," said Frollo. "You are such a charming creature." He scowled playfully. La Esmeralda seemed repulsed. She remained quiet for several moments, apparently lost in thought. Around them the trees whistled and bent in the gentle breeze.

The two sat in relative silence until she spoke. "Please, may I sit here alone? I promise not to leave," she pleaded. She wound a single strand of hair around a finger and nervously bit her lip. He noticed dark, sickly looking circles beneath her eyes. Was she still ill?

"Are you well?" he asked. She stared at the ground; her hand fell away from her hair.

"Yes," she whispered, "but my heart is sick for home, and I miss the sun." She glanced up toward the sky. Brilliant orange peeked through the branches and illuminated the great trees and the floor of the forest. The bright sunlight reminded her of a wonderful time when she leisurely danced in the sun's golden rays. Carelessly she began to pet the goat again.

Frollo started to speak, but the gypsy suddenly threw her head into her hands and began to wail softly. Her tiny body shuddered each time she let out a sob. The priest shifted nervously, unsure whether his touch would be welcomed. He reached out a hand and patted her shoulder; she hissed.

"Leave me alone," she spat through bared teeth.

"So you are not well," he said sternly, letting his hand fall to the ground, away from the gypsy.

"You put up a good farce, demon," she exclaimed. "You put on quite a show, but you care not of my wellbeing, only of your pleasure. I can feel myself dying, and it makes me happy."

"Silly girl," he responded, "such heathen words. I think it best if you went inside until you are in a more suitable mood, perhaps when you have recovered from your present melancholy."

"No!" she wailed. "It has been so long since I have seen the trees, or the sky. Let me stay a while longer," she begged.

Frollo looked at the broken woman before him. Her face was wet from tears and her eyes were dull. He idly thought to himself that she was mourning the hunchback and would soon forget her grief. "I do not know, my love," he said. "Look through the trees; the sun is going down and soon it will be dark. Tomorrow we will walk outside, but for the moment, come inside."

The Bohemian wearily bent her head in submission. He tenderly grabbed her little hand and pulled her up. Once standing, she kept her eyes on the ground and barely made a noise. He placed his hand on her back and pushed her forward toward the house. Obediently, she marched into the little shack.

--

Esmeralda was dismayed to hear the patter of rain against the straw rooftop. Tiny streams of water leaked from weak areas in the roof to the ground and created little rivers that flowed out of the side of the house. It had been several days since it had started to rain, and with each day her spirit became even more depressed. She found she lacked the energy to move out of bed, so she usually remained there all day.

She could hear Claude moving around in the front room, but she found it hard to muster the energy to care. She imagined several scenarios in which the old priest slipped and fell, hopefully breaking his neck. But from what she could hear, the wretched man was able to stay on both feet. She was even more disappointed, although she did hear him curse when he ran into the table.

A wave of nausea wracked through her body and she clutched her stomach. Although she was no longer remaining sick all day, she found the mornings were usually the worse. Luckily, though, the priest was usually far away and did not hear her.

La Esmeralda ran to a corner and knelt, ready to release her body of the poison, but it never came. She felt warm and sickly. She then decided to return to bed and see if the nausea went away. She carefully made her way to the straw bed and ungracefully fell down on it. Almost immediately she was asleep.

When she awoke, it had stopped raining and she felt marvelously better. She hastily scrambled to her feet and ran to the front room. Claude was not in there. She flew to the door, flung it open, and ran outside.

The world was glorious. She could see the blue sky and hints of the golden sun peek through the trees. The ground, although moistened and soggy, seemed revitalized, and the grass seemed a brighter hue of green. Birds seemed to be chirping louder. For a moment, she was happy.

She carelessly twirled around, but soon stopped, realizing she had an audience.

--

Bellamy was anxious. For five days it had been raining, and he had been restricted in his duties. He wanted to travel to the little house in the woods, but the midwife refused to go in the rain. So when he walked out of the little church to find a blue sky clear of grey clouds, he headed straight for Geneva's house.

As he approached, he heard the midwife's little girl happily yell, "Bellamy!" The midwife, alerted by her daughter's shrill cry, turned and greeted the priest.

"Bellamy, how kind of you to visit," Geneva said, hints of contempt in her voice.

"Splendid morning, isn't it?" the blonde priest asked and smiled at Quiterie.

"If muddy roads are your idea of splendid, then I guess it is," the midwife dryly replied.

"Geneva, you have always been too pessimistic. Think of all the good the rain has done," he said.

"Yes, I'm happy that not matter where I walk, the hem of my dress will get dirty," she said, pausing to look painfully at her daughter rolling in the mud with her dog. "Bellamy, how may I help you today?"

"I thought we could take a walk." When she changed her disdainful look from the ground to the priest, he added, "To see how our friends in the woods are doing."

"You are a pain," she sighed, then turned to her daughter. "Quiterie, do you want to go for a walk?"

"Yes!" the girl exclaimed happily.

"Come on, then." The little girl joyfully jumped up, ran the short distance to her mother, and stretched her arms upwards. Her mother's scowl deepened. "No, no, you will have to walk. You're too filthy to carry."

"Can Marlon come?" the child pleaded, looking back at her puppy.

"Absolutely not, that cur is more of a nuisance then I bargained for."

"Feeling well, Geneva?" Bellamy laughed.

"I've been better," she snapped, straightening her dress.

"Quiterie," the priest smiled, "walk with me. You mother is foul today." The little girl happily ran to Bellamy and held his hand. With an indigent huff, Geneva walked forward, and they started their trek to the forest.

The midwife could have been fooled. From how he talked, she thought the priest was eager to get to the house in the woods, but the way he strolled and chatted with Quiterie, it did not appear so.

"Quiterie, look! Did you see the rabbit?" Bellamy pointed to a leafy bush. The girl sadly shook her head. "Don't worry. We'll see more."

"I'm tired of walking," Quiterie howled.

"Child, we are almost there," Geneva said and turned to address her daughter. "I told you when we began I would not carry you." The girl hung her head and did her very best to imitate one of her mother's sighs; the midwife tried to hide the little smile that had crept to her face.

After a short walk, the three finally reached their destination and were happy to see the mysterious man outside. He was standing next to a large tree near the house with his back turned away from the trio. A little black goat sniffed his shoes.

"Claude?" the midwife called. The man quickly turned to acknowledge them.

"Yes?" he asked, visibly surprised by their appearance.

Geneva watched as Bellamy approached the rigid man and greeted him. Claude, although civil, was apparently a little irritated with the priest. After the formalities were out of the way and it had been reestablished who everyone was, Claude took on a completely different countenance when Bellamy began to pry.

"I must say, you have intrigued quite a number of people in our little community," Bellamy casually remarked, trying to incite a response out of the man.

"It is not the first time people have whispered about me," Claude countered indifferently. Clearly not knowing how to respond, Bellamy crossed his arms and smiled.

"Well, sir, how are you and your wife doing today?" the young man asked.

The midwife watched Claude lean against the tree and look down at the slightly shorter man; she was delighted. The scene unfolding was like a master reprimanding an ignorant apprentice. The midwife liked to watch the usually confident Bellamy squirm.

"We are fine, but the rain has put my wife into a dreary mood. I believe she is sleeping," Claude said, offhandedly looking at the goat at his feet. Geneva smirked and examined the two men. Claude was so cryptic and reserved, quite the opposite of Bellamy.

For a moment, there was silence. Claude shifted away from the curious goat, then looked pass Bellamy to the house. "You are new here, no?" Bellamy asked. "Where did you come from?"

"Paris," Claude said, standing a little taller.

"Ah, Paris. I hear the king was in town recently," Bellamy said, obviously happy to find a new topic.

"Yes," Claude replied, offering nothing else.

Bellamy leaned closer and said, "I'm sure you also heard the stories of the possessed Archdeacon. Pilgrims pass through here frequently and tell us stories about the sorcerer." Claude, now clearly vexed, crossed his arms and looked sternly at the priest.

"Surely an educated man such as yourself wouldn't believe such stories," Claude said severely. Geneva thought he had a point. Most pilgrims were in a frenzy of religious paranoia and were hardly worth listening to.

"The man has disappeared. One morning Paris woke up to find the Archdeacon had vanished. They say that late at night, though, his cell in Notre Dame still glows red," Bellamy said.

Claude opened his mouth, no doubt to argue the absurdity of the rumors, but behind them the door to the little house slammed open. Geneva turned around, cocked her head, and watched as the strange girl pranced out of the house and twirled around. Beside her Bellamy had also turned to watch the peculiar display. Soon the girl stopped, suddenly aware of the visitors.


End file.
